THE  BALANCE 


ARTHUR. 
1.ITLC-, 


"  There   were    times     .     .     .     when    he   sat 
gazing  at  his  dark   tenement  landscape  in  a 
despondency  that  Ricorton  thought  would  never 
lift" 


THE  BALANCE 

A  Novel 


BY 

FRANCIS  R.  BELLAMY 


Illustrated  by  Arthur  Litle 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE    &    COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


TO  MY  WIFE 

WITHOUT  WHOM  SAMMY  WOULD  NEVER 
HAVE  EXISTED 


2134364   I 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


I.     In  Which,  for  the  First  Time,  Sammy's 

Legs  Are  Thin  to  Carrie     ....         3 

II.  In  Which  Sammy  Writes  Some  Letters, 
but  Unfortunately  Neglects  to  Ad- 
here to  the  Truth  12 

III.  In  Which  Sammy  Finally  Loses  Mrs. 

Schroeder's   Favour,   but   Gains   her 
Daughter's 20 

IV.  In  Which  Carrie  Tells  Sammy  Some  Un- 

palatable Truths  Which  Do  Not  Turn 
Out  Badly  at  All 31 

V.  In  Which  Sammy  Has  an  Interview  with 
Mr.  Schroeder  and  Resolves  To  Imi- 
tate his  Example 42 

VI.     In  Which  Mr.  Pike  Makes  His  Appearance 

only  in  Order  to  Disappear  from  View     .       58 

VII.  In  Which  the  Path  of  Life  Begins  [to 
Fork,  and  Carrie  and  Sammy  Part 
Company  for  a  While 66 

VIII.  In  Which  Our  Sammy  Becomes  a  Theat- 
rical Magnate,  and  Nearly  Returns 
to  Melchester — But  Stays  to  Write 
a  Play 79 

IX.     In  Which  Sammy  Changes  His  Spots, 

and  Goes  Home  to  Show  Them      .      .     102 

X.  In  Which  Carrie  Has  a  Pleasant  Break- 
fast with  Her  Father,  and  Sylvia 
Spends  a  Disagreeable  Afternoon  122 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XI.  In  Which  Sammy,  with  Sylvia's  Help, 
Shows  Off  His  Spots,  and  Returns  to 
New  York  to  Ponder  upon  Carrie's 
Opinion  of  Them 137 

XII.  In  Which  Sammy  Becomes  a  Successful 
Playwright  in  Gotham,  and  Narrowly 
Misses  Having  a  Thought  .  .  .  163 

XIII.  In  Which  Carrie  Urges  Sammy  to  Think, 

and  Ruby  Comes  Back  with  Bantry 

to  the  Halfway  House        ....     183 

XIV.  In  Which  a  Depression  Plays  the  Deuce 

with  Them  All,  and  Sammy  Hears 
Some  Music 199 

XV.     In  Which  Sammy  Gets  His  Idea  at  Last     216 

XVI.  In  Which  Mr.  Schroeder  and  John 
Rouse  Conspire  Together,  Although 
Neither  of  Them  Knows  It,  and  Carrie 
Leaves  Melchester,  as  a  Result  .  .  236 

XVII.  In  Which  Fate  First  Gives  a  Hint  That 
She  May  Have  One  More  Heroic  Role 
for  Sammy 250 

XVIII.  In  Which  Poverty  Wins  Its  First  Victory 
Over  Them,  but  Is  Cheated  of  the 
Fruits  of  the  Triumph  by  Sammy  .  271 

XIX.  In  Which  Bantry  Congratulates  Him- 
self, and  Carrie  Sees  a  New  Play  by  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  at  the  Fine  Arts  .  289 

XX.     In  Which  Carrie  Makes  a  Call  upon 

Sammy,  and  Ruby  Regrets  It  Most          3 10 

XXI.     In  Which  Bantry  Tells  the  Truth,  and 

No  One  Finds  It  Palatable      .      .      .     324 

XXII.     In  Which  Sammy  Makes  a  Prayer,  for 

the  Second  Time — and  Gets  It       .      .     337 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"There  were  times  .  .  when  he  sat  gazing  at 
his  dark  tenement  landscape  in  a  despond- 
ency that  Ricorton  thought  would  never  lift" 

Frontispiece 


FACING  PAGE 


"I   forgot,  Sammy.     .     .     .     I  can't  see  you  any 

more!"' 38 

"Godfrey!     .     .     .     what   a   part!    The  Lady 

in  the  Lion  Skin,  eh?" 102 

"  Sammy's  faith  faltered  as  he  .  .  .  saw  that 
vast  audience  stream  in  from  the  rainswept 
street" 294 


Y  fOW  Sammy's  youth  differed 
/  /  from  that  recorded  in  the  official 
biography  ofS.  Sydney  Tappan, 
Playwright — How  Sammy  grew  up  in 
Melchester  and  elsewhere — How  he  fell 
in  love  with  Carrie  Schroeder,  prayed  his 
first  prayer,  and  entered,  alas,  a  plumb- 
ing business — Also  some  account 
of  Mrs.  Schroeder's  disapproval  of 
"twosing"  when  done  with  impecunious 
youths — The  collapse  of  the  plumbing 
enterprise — And  Sammyys  journey  to 
try  his  fortune  in  New  York. 


THE   BALANCE 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH,  FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME,  SAMMY'S  LEGS 
ARE  THIN  TO  CARRIE 

"No  one  who  met  S.  Sydney  Tappan  ever  failed  to  be  impressed 
at  once  by  his  compelling  personality.  He  conquered  always,  like 
Caesar,  upon  sight." 

— From  the  biography  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  Playwright. 

WELL,  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  contradict  a  biography  and 
a  thankless  one,  too,  perhaps;  but  first  impressions  are 
apt  to  be  varied.  Is  it  fair,  at  this  late  day,  to  record 
the  first  impression  a  certain  young  lady  had  of  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  ? 

It  was: 

"How  thin  his  legs  are!"  And  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  for  the  boy  whose  legs  were  so  thin  that  the  morti- 
fication must  be  exquisite. 

"/  don't  think  they're  so  thin!"  she  cried  out  impul- 
sively, and  her  hand  flew  to  her  throat  with  the  intense 
pity  she  felt. 

"They  could  only  get  hockey  sticks  in  my  stockings 
last  Christmas,"  he  said,  with  a  grin  on  his  face  and  a 
well  of  gratitude  in  his  heart.  Exaggeration  was  al- 
ways his  mask  for  emotion  and  the  girl  before  him  had 
touched  his  heart. 

But  her  dark  eyebrows  curved  until  they  almost  met, 
and  she  clenched  her  hands  in  compassion.  She  thought 
that  he  meant  it. 

"Oh,  the  meanies!"  she  cried.     "Oh,  I  don't  think 


4  THE  BALANCE 

that  was  nice!"  And  her  hand  crept  to  her  throat 
again. 

Sammy  never  saw  Carrie's  hand  fly  to  her  throat 
afterward  without  looking  instinctively  to  see  if  his 
trousers  had  shrunk  to  the  knee.  It  is  the  reason  for 
all  those  finely  proportioned  heroes  in  the  plays  of  S. 
Sydney  Tappan.  None  of  his  leading  ladies  should 
ever  be  caught  with  her  hand  at  her  throat  and  her  eyes 
on  her  lover's  legs! 

And  yet  it  is  not  because  I  have  anything  against  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  that  I  have  begun  this  history;  this  is 
to  be  no  attempt  to  tear  down  a  popular  idol.  My  only 
reason  for  writing  the  truth  now,  indeed,  is  because  the 
real  story  of  his  struggle  is  so  much  finer  than  the  com- 
monplace periods  of  his  official  biography  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  restrain  myself  from  crying  out  to  the 
world:  "Not  so  it  was — but  thus!"  That  is  the  reason 
for  these  pages. 

If  you  think  sometimes  that  I  am  hard  upon  Sammy 
remember  that  I  could  never  be  downright  unfair  to 
him.  I  should  have  Carrie's  picture  crying  out  at  me 
then: 

"Oh,  please,  please!  Whatever  he  did,  it  was  always 
his  best!"  No — the  only  thing  I  will  ever  be  hard 
on  in  this  history  will  be  that  biography — and  that 
only  because  the  truth  about  Sammy  was  always  hard 
enough  to  discover  without  the  handicap  which  the 
biographers  have  added.  This  time  we  shall  have  the 
thing  as  it  was,  without  the  claptrap,  and  without  the 
glory. 

You  who  met  Sammy  may  perhaps  have  noticed  a 
slight  look  of  patience  around  his  mouth.  It  redeemed 
what  otherwise  might  have  been  justly  called  a  rather 
weak  chin.  When  it  was  there  he  was  thinking  of 
Carrie.  I  am  glad  for  her  that  it  was  nearly  always 
there.  Once  he  did  not  see  her  for  two  years,  but  his 
picture  came  out  in  the  dramatic  section  of  one  of  our 
leading  magazines  just  after  one  of  Sylvia  Tremaine, 
and  Carrie  wept  for  pure  happiness  when  she  saw  it. 


THE  BALANCE  5 

The  look  was  there  and  she  knew  that  his  eyes  were  ask- 
ing for  her. 

"Sammy!"  she  cried — and  she  kissed  the  tinted 
paper  passionately. 

There  was  no  picture  of  Sammy  in  her  settlement 
room;  but  no  one  could  object  to  one  of  our  most  con- 
scientious magazines.  She  bought  twelve.  The  pub- 
lishers never  sent  S.  Sydney  Tappan  any  commission, 
but  he  brought  them  a  lifelong  subscriber. 

She  could  never  see  those  magazines  afterward  with- 
out glimpsing  again  the  fading  vision  of  her  youth  in 
elm-shaded  Melchester — the  rustle  of  branches  in  Haw- 
thorne Street,  the  smell  of  burning  leaves  on  Washing- 
ton Avenue,  the  clanging  bell  of  the  ancient  horsecars 
as  they  took  their  leisurely  way  down  to  Main  Street — 
the  Melchester  she  and  Sammy  had  known  as  children. 

The  pulse  of  progress  had  not  quickened  then. 
There  were  no  fine  marble  buildings  on  Main  Street; 
no  settlement  houses  on  Hague;  Washington  Avenue 
descended  ignominiously  to  a  country  road  running 
through  nursery  fields,  over  which  one  could  see  in  the 
distance  hills  and  woods,  and  long,  covered  bridges 
spanning  the  turbid  river.  The  Country  Club  had  just 
been  formed  miles  out  in  the  rural  district;  feed  stores 
under  flat  tin  roofs  were  still  in  evidence  upon  Main 
Street;  Prince's  Garden — early  home  of  the  drama — had 
not  yet  sold  its  arched  entrance  to  the  First  City  Bank, 
so  the  Washington  Theatre  was  still  to  be  built.  Long, 
high  windows  with  white  signs  on  the  glass  stared  down 
from  the  brick  Preston  Block  upon  the  cobbled  thorough- 
fare of  Washington  Corners;  even  the  carved  stone  of 
the  Stark  Building,  fireproof,  was  just  being  lifted 
laboriously  into  place,  while  from  all  directions,  in 
place  of  black  poles  of  iron,  rows  of  shady  elms  marched 
upon  the  merchandise-lined  sidewalks  of  the  small 
business  section  with  its  high,  narrow  store  fronts, 
hitching  posts,  and  horse  troughs. 

Nowhere  in  sight,  in  those  days  of  the  eighties,  was 
there  any  hint  of  the  magic  with  which  the  years  to 


6  THE  BALANCE 

come  would  gild  Melchester,  until  the  great  city  of  to- 
day would  come  to  pass — the  city  of  mighty  industries 
and  factories,  of  great  stores  and  fine  streets,  and,  alas ! 
of  dingy  tenements  and  slums.  Nowhere  any  sign 
then  of  the  coming  age  of  industrialism  which  would 
supersede  those  small  shopkeepers,  those  cobblers, 
those  scattered,  unorganized  remnants  of  an  older  era 
of  production  and  distribution — supersede  and  crush, 
leaving  behind  the  inevitable  displacement  of  society 
in  the  form  of  ruined  hopes,  failing  families,  and — out 
Washington  Avenue — new  homes  and  fine  houses,  sym- 
bols of  a  newer  success. 

The  first  families  were  living  across  the  river  in  the 
old  Second  Ward  then;  their  iron  fences  and  metal 
animals  discouraging  the  invitation  of  their  green 
lawns.  Few  indeed  had  been  bold  enough  to  cross  the 
river  and  build  their  houses  upon  Washington  Avenue 
and  its  side  streets.  Only  as  far  as  Hawthorne  Street 
did  any  one  with  social  position  dare  to  live.  Beyond 
was  the  land  of  the  benighted. 

Nowhere  was  there  any  hint  of  the  coming  tide  of 
prosperity  which  would  crowd  those  fields  with  trees 
and  fine  houses,  with  churches  and  tailored  humanity, 
until  the  Four  Hundred  would  add  and  subtract  and 
multiply  and  divide,  and,  in  despair,  finally  separate 
into  all  the  many  groups  of  a  large  city.  Only  rows  of 
unassuming  houses  amid  sunny  lawns  and  graceful 
elms,  with  here  and  there  a  barn — thinning  gradually 
into  the  open  fields,  and  at  last  the  green  countryside; 
nowhere  a  sign  of  change,  of  the  future. 

It  was  in  one  of  those  unassuming  houses  that  our 
Sammy  was  born  and  grew  up.  You  have  all  read  of 
his  boyhood  there:  of  the  endless  campaigns  of  lead 
soldiers  which  he  conducted  high  in  the  attic;  of  the 
Brownie  Republic  and  its  newspaper,  laboriously 
written  and  pasted  together,  one  issue  a  week;  of  the 
plays  that  he  staged  through  the  proscenium  arch  of  the 
large  velvet  picture  frame  he  found  under  the  eaves, 
plays  lighted  by  candles,  written  and  acted  by  the 


THE  BALANCE  7 

Scotch  Brownie,  inspired  by  the  brain  of  S.  Sydney 
Tappan;  of  his  views  on  Paris,  too — at  the  age  of  eight — 
expressed  by  that  remark  in  the  widely  reprinted  letter 
to  his  nurse  home  in  Melchester:  "We  dont  go  in  at  the 
back  door,  here  in  Paris,  because  the  arent  no  backdoor 
to  go  in  at!"  showing  clearly  some  Dutch  or  German 
ancestry  somewhere  in  the  past!  You  have  read  all 
these  things  even  if  you  have  forgotten  them.  The 
magazines  have  told  them  all. 

The  biography  itself,  also,  has  told  you  of  his  social 
position,  springing — as  I  fear  they  have  forgotten  to 
mention — from  the  fact  that  his  grandfather  had  known 
the  founder  of  one  of  those  leading  Second  Ward  fam- 
ilies since  the  halcyon  days  when  the  founder  ran  a  canal 
boat.  It  has  told  you,  too,  of  Annie,  his  Irish  nurse,  and 
the  love  that  became  his  on  the  day  her  policeman  died 
and  the  child  stole  into  her  empty  heart;  of  Marian 
Tappan,  his  mother,  and  her  unavailing  efforts  to  make 
a  widow's  life  insurance  still  play  the  part  of  an  income 
after  the  death  of  her  father-in-law,  when  the  European 
trips  had  ceased  and  genteel  poverty  come  to  stay. 
The  old  gentleman  had  been  improvident. 

It  is  only  necessary  indeed  to  read  that  curious  vol- 
ume of  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  earlier  and  unpresented 
plays  to  see  this  part  of  Sammy's  boyhood  sticking 
out.  The  curtain  almost  invariably  descends  upon  an 
humbled  and  repentant  father,  while  the  hero — with 
well-built  legs — stands  nobly  by.  It  is  because,  to 
use  his  own  remark  to  horrified  spinsters,  Sammy  never 
had  a  father.  John  Tappan  died  when  Sammy  was 
but  three  years  old.  It  was  later,  when  Sammy  found 
that  other  boys  had  fathers  while  he  had  none,  and  that 
people  somehow  rather  pitied  his  mother  on  account  of 
it — it  was  then  that  his  pride  in  his  family  led  him  to  as- 
sert that  his  mother,  for  her  part,  had  never  cared  to  get 
him  one.  No  one  could  have  been  more  intolerant  of 
fathers  than  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  aged  six. 

The  child  of  Hawthorne  Street,  however,  would  never 
have  recognized  those  clear-cut  actions  and  motives 


8  THE  BALANCE 

which  pass  for  a  description  of  his  youth  in  the  biog- 
raphy. To  him  the  characters  of  his  boyhood  were  al- 
ways like  people  who  moved  in  a  fog.  He  never  knew 
where  they  were  going  or  why.  In  his  mind  in  after 
years  the  first  sixteen  years  of  his  life  appeared  as  a 
shadowy  cinema  drama,  punctuated  by  occasional 
clear  pictures:  now  of  himself  in  Melchester,  watching 
Asa  Dobbs  upon  a  new  velocipede,  pedalling  swiftly 
down  the  elm-shadowed  length  of  Hawthorne  Street; 
now  packing  in  the  heat  of  July  or  the  frost  of  Febru- 
ary for  trips  to  far-off  Bermuda  or  California  or  distant 
Vienna  and  Paris;  now  snowballing  tiny  Dorothy  Alden 
and  Carolyn  Schroeder  bright  January  noons  after 
school  had  let  out;  now  singing,  hopelessly,  in  minstrel 
shows  in  Asa's  attic  to  a  suspiciously  appreciative 
audience;  now  paying  long  visits  with  his  mother  and  the 
Dobbs  to  London  and  Paris  through  changing  seasons. 

It  was  odd  that  long  after  Melchester  became  a  blur 
he  could  remember  those  months  in  Paris,  the  city  of 
charm  indescribable.  An  embryo  Wagner  he  was  then 
to  the  kaleidoscopic  fancy  of  his  mother;  spending  long 
hours  practising  rebelliously  over  the  battered  grand 
piano  while  outside  the  gardens  of  Auteuil  called  to  him. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  third  of  a  grand  opera  score  to  be 
found  now  that  bears  in  scrawling  hand  the  signature 
of  S.  Sydney  Tappan.  It  is  the  sum  total  of  his  musical 
genius. 

He  could  always  remember,  too,  with  uncanny  dis- 
tinctness, those  hours  he  spent  with  Asa  upon  the  plain 
wooden  floor  of  that  Parisian  apartment,  leading  the 
armies  of  the  First  Napoleon  across  the  level  fields  of 
France.  Murat!  Beloved  Lannes!  Brave  Ney!  What 
mattered  it  that  those  legions  were  of  lead,  that  the  fields 
of  France  stretched  a  bare  ten  feet,  and  the  Alps  were 
sketched  in  chalk  upon  the  wooden  floor? 

Sometimes,  even  now,  on  blowy  winter  evenings,  when 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  sits  playing  chess  beside  the  apple- 
wood  fire  in  Melchester,  the  chessboard  fades  as  if  by 
magic,  and  once  more  there  stretch  before  him  the  sunlit 


THE  BALANCE  9 

fields  of  France,  with  the  Guard  charging  as  of  old  be- 
fore the'stern  eyes  of  their  Emperor,  as  he  sits  astride  his 

white  charger  saying  to  Marshal  Tappan 

"Check!"  a  cool  voice  speaks. 

And  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  in  Melchester  once  more, 
plays  his  move  at  chess.  It  is  the  closest  even  a  play- 
wright of  fifty  can  come  to  the  romance  of  childhood's 
brave  campaigns.  His  imagination  can  give  his  char- 
acter a  tussle  even  yet. 

How  strangely  silent  the  biography  is  upon  the 
youthful  character  of  Sammy!  That  character  of  many 
starts,  many  impulses,  and  no  finishes,  no  ends,  with- 
out an  understanding  of  which  his  career  is  unintelli- 
fible.  It  seemed  afterward  almost  as  if  the  Gods  of 
rony  directed  the  fond  imagination  of  his  mother  in 
her  attempts  to  bring  him  up.  A  budding  genius  our 
Sammy,  to  Mrs.  Tappan — but  alas!  in  every  way  except 
the  real  one.  An  embryo  Wagner  in  Paris;  in  London 
a  Whistler;  in  Vienna  a  De  Reszke;  in  California  a 
Stevenson;  in  Melchester  a  St.  Gaudens — what  a  mag- 
nificent educational  chaos  that  bringing-up  resulted  in! 
Everything  but  what  he  was.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur 
to  her,  in  spite  of  the  Brownie  Theatre,  that  he  might 
be  a  playwright — perhaps  because  Melchester  society 
did  not  look  then  with  its  present  favour  on  the  people 
of  the  theatre.  That  he  could  follow  so  faithfully  all 
the  artistic  changes  of  program  which  she  made  during 
those  years  was  due  to  that  profound  imaginative  abil- 
ity of  his — he  was  always  a  sort  of  dramatic  chameleon 
incarnated  by  some  strange  alchemy  and  at  the  beck 
and  call  of  his  environment.  His  life  would  be  incom- 
prehensible without  this  fact. 

Poverty,  too,  did  not  overtake  him  until  his  boyhood 
was  past.  It  explains  why  his  education  was  so  finely 
adapted  to  the  part  he  finally  played;  and  his  tastes, 
alas!  so  ill  fitted  to  those  surroundings  against  which  he 
was  soon  forced  to  struggle. 

His  boyhood  has  passed  completely  away  now.  You 
have  probably  often  passed  through  Melchester  on  the 


10  THE  BALANCE 

fast  train  and  seen  the  very  fields  and  woods  where  he 
played.  They  are  gone  to-day.  The  ball  grounds  first 
drove  them  out  and  houses  in  turn  have  dispossessed 
the  ball  grounds.  The  fields  are  cut  up  with  fine  streets 
and  beautiful  residences,  mostly  mortgaged  to  Mr. 
Schroeder. 

Those  Schroeders!  How  curiously  uncommunica- 
tive the  biography  is  upon  the  subject  of  Carrie  and 
that  family  of  hers!  Hard  facts,  of  course,  are  not  the 
stuff  of  which  existence  is  made:  it  is  ideas  that  make  a 
man  and  his  life — but  the  biography  does  not  even 
seem  to  have  all  the  facts.  The  first  great  reality  of  S. 
Sydney  Tappan's  youth,  for  instance,  is  not  even  men- 
tioned. It  was  his  meeting  with  Carrie  again,  when  he 
came  home  to  Melchester  from  that  last  trip  to  England 
and  France.  He  was  sixteen  then. 

It  was  at  their  first  party  that  fall  that  the  meeting 
took  place;  and  as  they  came  home  after  it  that  Sammy 
first  showed  the  changeability  of  those  chameleon 
spots  of  his.  It  was  by  the  little  dark  hedge  on  Haw- 
thorne Street,  it  is  gray  with  age  now,  that  he  took  the 
hand  she  swung  so  lightly  by  her  side. 

"Carrie!"  he  said,  his  boyish  voice  husky  with  emo- 
tion. He  did  not  really  know  what  he  was  going  to 
say,  beyond  that  the  situation  demanded  something 
romantic,  until  after  he  had  started  and  there  was  no 
retreat. 

But  he  got  no  chance  to  say  it  then.  Carrie  Schroeder 
never  deceived  herself  though  there  were  many  times 
when  she  wished  passionately  she  could. 

"Please  don't!"  she  answered.  It  was  instinctive, 
her  drawing  back.  That  Sammy  himself  might  not  be 
entirely  in  earnest  did  not  occur  to  her. 

But  it  was  Sammy's  first  chance  at  a  dramatic  scene, 
and  he  fell  in  love  with  it  on  the  spot.  What  more 
dramatically  appealing,  indeed,  than  a  rejected  lover? 
It  was  his  first  embrace  with  his  heroi-comic  Imp. 

"Is  there  no  chance  for  me?"  he  asked  brokenly. 
He  meant  it,  perhaps,  divided  by  twenty-four. 


THE  BALANCE  11 

Things  were  always  very  real  to  Carrie,  however. 

"Oh,  Sam!"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  as  her 
hand  flew  to  her  throat.  "I  just  wish  I  could!"  And 
she  kissed  him  impulsively  and  ran  into  the  house 
closing  the  door  after  her. 

It  was  only  then  that  Sammy  realized  how  much  he 
should  have  been  in  earnest.  It  was  like  a  shock  of 
cold  water.  He  only  prayed  twice  in  his  life  for  any- 
thing. This  was  the  first  time.  He  looked  up  at  the 
light  as  it  flashed  out  from  Carrie's  window. 

"God!"  he  said  in  a  whisper,  "God!  Please  let 
me  love  Carrie — and  please  make  Carrie  love  me — all 
of  our  lives." 

He  always  meant  well,  did  Sammy.  If  it  was  merely 
another  colour  flashing  from  the  spectrum  of  his  char- 
acter, he  was  properly  punished.  God  never  for- 
got. .  .  . 

"Why,  how  ideal!"  I  can  almost  hear  you  saying. 
"The  boyhood,  the  very  romance  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
should  have  had!  The  very  surroundings  for  his 
genius!  Paris,  Vienna,  London,  Hawthorne  Street, 
this  is  the  kind  of  palette  he  should  have  had  from  which 
to  paint  those  glowing  scenes  of  his  later  career." 

Alas!  This  is  not  the  biography.  This  time  we  deal 
with  the  truth.  Glowing  scenes  call  for  dark  and  boldly 
lined  figures  in  relief.  We  approach  the  shadows  on 
the  canvas. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  WHICH  SAMMY  WRITES  SOME  LETTERS,  BUT  UN- 
FORTUNATELY NEGLECTS  TO  ADHERE  TO  THE  TRUTH 

A  FAMILY  supremely  unconscious  of  the  impending 
fame  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  that  Schroeder  family, 
then.  Even  the  dragon  of  the  family,  Mrs.  Schroeder, 
seemed  quite  unaware  of  his  existence,  until  the  duties 
of  her  position  called  her  to  witness  that  he  was  writing 
to  her  eldest  daughter  from  college.  She  did  not  seem 
unduly  excited  then. 

"Who  is  this  from?"  she  inquired,  in  a  tone  which 
implied  unspeakable  distrust  for  the  author  of  the  letter 
which  she  held  up  before  her  daughter's  gaze.  She 
seemed  to  disregard  the  opened  envelope  completely. 
The  humblest  correspondent  with  a  Schroeder  daughter, 
indeed,  could  always  be  sure  of  two  readers,  at  least: 
Mrs.  Schroeder  first — and  then  the  daughter. 

"Sam  Tappan,"  Carrie  replied  in  her  low,  musical 
voice.  She  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  daughters 
who  did  not  seem  completely  effaced  by  the  mere  pres- 
ence of  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Schroeder  sniffed  audibly  while  her  husband 
buried  himself  deeper  in  his  newspaper.  She  had  come 
upon  some  particularly  fine  flourish  of  that  dramatic 
mind,  I  suppose. 

"Well,  he's  a  fool!"  she  said  angrily.  "You  needn't 
encourage  him  /"  It  was  her  capital  instinct  always — 
to  consider  all  people  fools. 

Such  was  our  Sammy's  first  introduction  to  that 
family. 

Alas!  for  the  Schroeders!  To  be  thus  flung  into  place 
as  mere  scenery  before  which  to  enact  again  the  drama 

12 


THE  BALANCE  18 

of  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  life!  Does  no  one  remember 
now  Charles  W.  Schroeder,  or  the  great  Schroeder  gro- 
cery stores  for  themselves?  Is  all  the  vast  Schroeder 
achievement  lost  sight  of  in  the  blaze  of  our  Sammy's 
name? 

Jit  was  not  so  once  upon  a  time.  There  was  a  day, 
indeed,  when  most  of  Melchester,  society  and  all,  lay 
prostrate  beneath  the  spell  of  that  success,  before  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  had  even  been  heard  of.  It  was  when  the 
Schroeder  stores  were  merged  with  a  vast  chain  of  others, 
leaving  only  the  large  yellow  brick  building  on  South 
Avenue  to  bear  the  Schroeder  name — and  Mr.  Schroeder 
himself  became  the  mainstay  and  a  partner  in  Hopkin- 
son,  Balmer  &  Lawrence,  the  big  department  store  of 
which  the  city  has  always  been  so  proud. 

A  hard-working  corner  grocer  in  the  beginning,  too, 
this  same  Schroeder,  and  not  in  the  society  column  at 
all,  Melchester  said  with  bated  breath,  lest  pride  be 
meanly  construed  as  spite.  That  the  nucleus  of  the 
first  grocery  had  been  given  its  owner  by  his  brother  in 
an  illegal  effort  to  alleviate  the  pain  of  a  bankruptcy, 
Melchester  did  not  hint.  The  store  had  succeeded,  so 
there  seemed  little  doubt  that  Providence  considered 
the  transaction  proper.  To  Melchester  the  inference 
seemed  fairly  obvious.  Who  were  they  to  cavil — well, 
and  it  had  all  happened  a  long  time  ago,  too,  before 
the  bulk  of  the  business  was  in  wholesale,  before  the 
Schroeders  appeared  in  the  society  columns.  Who 
knew?  There  were  always  carpers,  people  critical  of  any 
success,  worse  themselves  no  doubt  than  the  success- 
ful people  they  criticised.  A  vast  achievement,  that 
Schroeder  success!  Its  mere  size  carried  with  it  much 
justification. 

A  man  of  singular  perspicacity,  too,  Mr.  Schroeder, 
so  people  said,  even  where  his  wife  was  concerned.  From 
the  first  year  of  their  marriage  there  had  been  no  doubt 
in  his  mind  as  to  what  course  to  pursue  where  she  was 
concerned.  At  the  first  sign  of  domestic  bad  weather 
he  had  always  merely  prepared  for  the  change.  The 


14  THE  BALANCE 

arrival  of  three  daughters,  one  by  one,  followed  by  the 
usual  hard  problems  incidental  to  such  folk,  had  con- 
firmed him  in  the  wisdom  of  this  choice.  Upon  any 
subject  regarding  them,  his  opinion  was  neither  asked 
for  nor  required.  It  was  assumed  by  his  wife  that  he 
had  none.  By  such  a  simple  device  had  he  secured  the 
control  of  all  his  time  in  order  to  devote  it  to  his  busi- 
ness. 

He  went  to  the  yellow  brick  building  on  South 
Avenue  every  morning  at  eight;  and  except  for  his  visit 
to  Hopkinson,  Balmer  &  Lawrence,  lasting  from  ten 
until  twelve,  he  did  not  emerge  until  half  after  five. 
Gossip  had  it  that  the  reason  he  did  not  lunch  at  the 
store  was  because  his  noon  meal  in  the  brick  building 
consisted  of  items  which,  unless  eaten,  might  prove  a 
total  loss  to  the  grocery  company.  This  no  doubt  is  a 
libel.  At  five-thirty  he  came  out,  putting  on  his  coat, 
and  stepped  into  the  Schroeder  carriage  unless  the  en- 
gagements of  the  family — which  had  a  sort  of  holy  pre- 
cedence— had  preempted  it;  in  which  case  he  purchased 
a  paper  from  the  boy  on  the  corner,  being  careful  to 
receive  the  correct  number  of  pennies  in  change,  and 
walked  slowly  home. 

He  arrived  as  a  rule  at  six.  By  imperceptible  ma- 
noeuvres the  dinner  hour  in  his  household  had  been  de- 
ferred, by  degrees,  until  now  he  dined  at  seven;  and  it 
was  during  this  intervening  hour  that  he  read  the 
Democrat  Herald  from  front  page  to  last.  He  particu- 
larly liked  the  editorials.  If  you  are  one  of  those  un- 
fortunate people  who  are  acquainted  with  the  Democrat 
Herald  you  will  understand  from  this,  without  further 
explanation,  the  exact  mental  equipment  of  Mr. 
Schroeder.  He  was  one  of  the  most  magnificently  solid 
of  Melchester's  solid  business  men. 

Such  was  that  Schroeder  family  then. 

Nothing  could  have  been  farther  from  Sammy's 
thoughts  than  the  Schroeders,  however,  the  March 
afternoon  he  alighted  in  the  smoke-blackened  train  shed 
which  in  those  days  proclaimed  to  the  traveller  his 


THE  BALANCE  15 

arrival  in  Melchester.  There  was  only  one  thought, 
one  question  in  the  future  playwright's  mind  then.  It 
was  whether  his  mother  was  still  alive  in  the  house  on 
Hawthorne  Street.  And  if  by  any  chance  she  could 
know  yet  of  the  failure  in  English  which  had  dropped 
him  from  college  this  week  of  her  illness. 

He  had  not  thought  of  much  else,  this  tall,  rather 
handsome  youth,  since  the  stone  station  in  the  Berk- 
shires  faded  from  sight,  some  hours  ago,  in  the  sparkling 
blue  white  of  winter,  and  he  turned  a  little  blindly  into 
the  warm  comfort  of  the  parlour  car,  leaving  a  college 
career  behind  him  forever. 

Well,  he  does  not  deserve  a  college  career,  he  has  told 
himself  grimly  all  day.  Somehow  he  has  not  been  able 
to  escape  a  burning  sense  of  his  unworthiness  ever  since 
the  letter  came  from  Annie,  his  old  nurse,  telling  him  of 
his  mother's  illness.  Breakdown  it  is,  in  reality,  he 
knows.  Breakdown  from  the  worry  of  trying  to  live 
and  support  a  son  in  college,  also,  on  an  income  insuffi- 
cient for  either.  A  son,  too,  who  has  known  for  many 
long  weeks  that  only  a  miracle  can  keep  him  still  in 
college  once  the  mid-year  examinations  are  past;  and 
who  has  worried  only  lest  his  mother  find  it  out  before 
the  last  moment  possible. 

That  has  been  the  reason  for  those  letters  of  his,  he 
has  assured  himself  all  day.  Why  should  she  suffer 
before  it  is  absolutely  necessary?  The  letters  must 
have  pleased  her  for  the  moment.  It  has  been  really 
kindness,  at  bottom. 

It  is  odd,  however,  how  certain  lines  and  phrases  in 
them  have  been  slinking  across  his  vision.  Phrases 
which,  somehow,  he  has  not  been  able  to  banish  from 
his  mind.  There  has  seemed  something  cheap  about 
those  letters  this  afternoon,  something  crude  and 
tawdry,  like  old  scenery  blinking  garishly  in  daylight, 
its  poor  effort  shamed  by  nature's  reality.  Reality! 
Is  that  it?  Well,  they  have  not  been  quite  the  truth, 
of  course. 

The  ones  on  the  dramatic  club,  for  instance,  and  his 


16  THE  BALANCE 

lofty  duty  to  the  Fine  Arts  in  the  college!  On  his 
character — God  save  the  mark — and  its  improvement! 
On  his  efforts  for  the  class  football  team,  the  debating 
club,  for  what  not,  because  mere  trying  means  so  much 
to  the  soul!  His  self-sacrifices  for  the  good  of  the 
majority,  the  university 

The  weight  of  them  has  pressed  heavily  upon  his 
conscience.  They  are  but  lies,  that  clear,  cold  light 
tells  him  mercilessly.  There  is  no  mention  in  them  of 
North  Adams  with  its  bars  and  cheap  theatres,  he  re- 
members uncomfortably,  of  Troy  and  its  new  hotel,  of 
Albany  and  its  near  metropolitan  attractions;  of  any  of 
those  devilish  week-ends  he  has  spent  there  proving 
himself  a  man  in  the  time-honoured  custom  of  young 
men  since  the  world  began;  no  mention  in  them,  in  a 
word,  of  that  real,  actual  life  of  his  of  which  classrooms 
and  Williamstown  have  been  but  the  necessary  evils, 
only  endured  that  the  joys  of  existence  might  be  tasted 
elsewhere. 

Letters  a  son  at  college  should  write  to  a  widowed 
mother  at  home!  That  is  what  they  are — not  S.  Syd- 
ney Tappan's  letters  to  the  failing  woman  on  Hawthorne 
Street.  They  are  the  record  of  his  first  heroic  role,  that 
is  all. 

Poor  Sammy!  He  was  not  well  acquainted  with  that 
Imp  of  his  in  those  days.  I  am  sure,  as  he  drove  to 
Hawthorne  Street,  that  he  thought  he  was  conscious 
of  nothing  except  the  picture  of  his  mother,  pale,  drawn 
with  worry,  struggling  to  fit  him  for  the  place  tradition 
had  mapped  out  for  him  when  Melchester  was  young 
and  the  Tappan  name  a  sesame.  And  yet  his  heroic 
Imp  was  with  him  even  then,  catching  on  behind  the 
carriage  as  it  rolled  away  from  the  ugly  brick  station 
and  whispering  through  the  little  back  window: 

"It's  you  whom  she  may  leave  alone,  Sydney!  A 
fine  part  if  you  play  it  correctly!" 

The  rest  of  the  ride  was  so  filled  with  the  idea,  splen- 
didly worked  out,  that  his  eyes  were  even  swimming 
a  little  with  tears  as  he  dismissed  the  carriage  and 


THE  BALANCE  17 

walked  up  the  steps  with  a  self-command  worthy  of  his 
grandfather  himself.  He  was  thinking  what  an  object 
of  sympathy  he  might  easily  be,  and  playing  the  hero 
bearing  bravely  up  beneath  the  weight  of  sorrow! 

It  was  Annie's  first  words  which  told  him  that  what 
he  had  been  merely  imagining  had  become  the  truth. 

"You  poor  boy,"  she  said,  weeping,  as  she  drew  him 
in.  "She  has  left  us!" 

He  hardly  grasped  then  what  she  meant  until  he  went 
upstairs  to  the  big  front  room  that  had  been  playroom, 
nursery,  and  bedroom  to  his  youth,  and  saw  the  face  of 
his  mother,  the  strain  gone  out  of  it,  and  the  quiet  of 
peace  everlasting  upon  it.  It  was  a  moment  then  for 
that  dramatic  devil,  but  somehow  the  devil  was  strangely 
absent.  Only  the  stunned  soul  of  Sammy  was  left  in 
the  room.  She  was  dead. 

Death  to  youth,  however,  is  not  a  happening,  it  is  a 
slow,  grim  realization  that  the  loved  one  has  gone. 
The  realization  for  Sammy  was  spread  out  over  all  of 
his  life. 

All  that  he  could  remember  of  those  days,  afterward, 
was  the  hush  of  the  house;  the  faces  of  the  relatives  as 
they  talked  with  him  in  just  the  right  key  for  use  with  a 
cousin  so  recently  orphaned;  the  silent  meals  at  the 
Dobbs'  next  door,  broken  only  by  the  loud  nose-blowing 
of  the  great  uncle  from  Washington;  the  embarrassed 
sympathy  of  Carrie  as  she  asked  if  there  were  not  some- 
thing she  could  do;  the  frightened  way  Dorothy  Alden 
from  across  the  street  talked  to  him  in  the  hall;  the 
inexorable  preparations  for  the  funeral;  and  the  misty 
rain  as  his  carriage  drove  to  the  cemetery  behind  the 
hearse;  and  then — the  quiet  of  the  house. 

It  seemed  odd,  that  quiet,  broken  only  by  the  sound 
of  Annie  upstairs  as  she  ransacked  some  old  bureau 
drawers.  It  brought  home  to  the  boy  a  sense  of  his 
loneliness;  a  loneliness  intensified  by  the  dawning  com- 
prehension that  this  house,  with  all  its  associations, 
must  be  left  behind  now — even  the  old  cat,  as  well  as 
Annie,  left  to  seek  a  new  place  for  herself.  He  would 


18  THE  BALANCE 

have  only  a  little  money,  perhaps  ten  thousand  dollars. 
The  great  uncle  from  Washington  had  said  so.  There 
might  be  enough  income  to  enable  him  to  board  some 
place  while  he  took  up  the  law,  the  old  gentleman  had 
said,  blowing  his  nose.  That  would  be  all.  His 
mother  had  lived  on  her  capital.  He  could  not  do  that, 
too.  .  .  . 

He  realized  a  little  then  his  vast  ignorance  of  the  life 
to  which  he  had  returned  so  suddenly,  and  yet  which  he 
had  never  really  known.  The  horizon  of  youth  is  small. 
He  would  work,  of  course,  though  at  just  what  he  did 
not  know.  He  had  friends.  In  time  it  would  be  all 
right.  His  ability  must  be  of  a  high  order.  Poor 
Sammy !  That  was  the  extent  of  his  outlook. 

It  was  not  a  good  afternoon  for  Fate  to  have  started 
her  work  upon  his  character.  But  Fate  is  not  tender 
hearted.  She  was  coming  even  then  with  Annie  as 
the  Irish  girl  came  in  to  light  the  lamps  and  pull  the 
shades  on  the  dusk  of  the  March  afternoon. 

"It's  a  package  she  left  for  you,"  Annie  said  as  she 
gave  him  a  little  bundle  by  the  lamp.  "A  week  now," 
she  added,  "I  was  meaning  to  send  it  on  to  you  at  the 
college." 

He  looks  near  like  a  man,  she  thinks  to  herself  as  she 
goes  out  to  the  kitchen — a  man!  And  she  wheeled  him 
herself  on  that  sidewalk  outside.  .  .  . 

In  the  old-fashioned  drawing-room,  however,  our 
Sammy  is  gazing  curiously  at  a  package  he  is  unwrap- 
ping. Yes,  he  is  almost  a  man  except  for  that  weak 
look  around  his  mouth.  He  seems  quite  immature 
when  his  chin  is  plain  in  the  light  from  the  lamp. 

Letters,  he  sees,  as  he  unwraps  the  bundle  completely 
— some  one's  letters,  and  a  book.  It  is  not  until  the 
light  falls  on  the  writing,  however,  that  he  sees  they 
are  his  own  letters  from  college!  His  letters,  all  care- 
fully arranged  in  the  order  of  their  date.  His  letters 
upon  his  college  activities,  upon  his  obligations,  upon 
his  duties,  his  sacrifices — his  letters  on  everything, 
perhaps,  except  the  truth. 


THE  BALANCE  19 

It  is  with  an  odd  feeling  of  chill,  of  cold,  that  he  reads 
the  note  with  them  in  that  familiar,  fine  handwriting 
of  his  mother's. 

Emerson!  He  is  like  Emerson,  she  has  written, 
may  yet  be  another  such  philosopher  in  time.  Yes, 
that  is  the  book,  too — "Emerson  on  Character,"  it  says 
on  the  cover.  On  the  flyleaf  is  written  :  "To  my  son 
Sammy,  on  the  eighteenth  anniversary  of  his  father's 
death,  with  the  hope  that  he,  too,  is  proud  of  his  son!" 

I  wonder  if  he  felt,  just  a  trifle,  the  tragedy  of  his 
mother's  life  in  that  simple  line  upon  the  flyleaf?  It 
was  his  first  awakening. 

Let  us  leave  him  to  gaze  on  the  face  of  his  conscience 
there  in  the  drawing-room  by  the  fire  while  we  tiptoe 
out  and  are  gone.  And  yet  I  cannot  resist  a  quotation 
from  the  biography  as  we  close  the  door  behind  us. 
It  will  tell  you,  perhaps,  why  I  find  it  hard  to  be  fair. 

"Faithful  to  those  high  ideals  which  he  formed  so 
early  in  life  S.  Sydney  Tappan  upon  his  mother's 
death  resolved  to  deny  himself  all  thought  of  a  college 
career  and  set  about  the  serious  business  of  life  at  once." 

Ah,  those  early  high  ideals! 

I  doubt  if  they  ever  existed  except  in  the  pages  of  the 
biography.  They  are  pure  high  imagination,  I  suspect! 
It  is  the  reason  why  publishers'  entreaties  to  put  out 
those  letters  nowadays  as  a  single  volume  for  young 
men  are  always  met  by  S.  Sydney  Tappan  with  such  an 
ungracious  refusal.  He  does  not  care  to  be  reminded 
of  the  youth  who  penned  them.  They  are  the  only 
part  of  that  biography  which  he  has  never  read. 
When  he  comes  to  the  letters,  he  skips  them. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  WHICH  SAMMY  FINALLY  LOSES  MRS.  SCHROEDER'S 
FAVOUR  BUT  GAINS  HER  DAUGHTER'S 

MELCHESTER,  in  those  days,  was  growing  beyond  the 
expectations  of  her  most  optimistic  citizens.  A  vacant 
lot  here  received  a  house,  an  old  dwelling  there  made 
way  for  a  new  brick  block;  high  rents  attracted  the 
Boston  flat  builder;  new  streets  were  laid  out  with 
little  noise,  and  a  mile  away  no  comment;  new  pave- 
ments gave  opportunity  for  old  couples  to  sell  dingy 
gray  houses  and  move  farther  out  to  hardwood  floors, 
to  view  in  surprise,  a  little  later,  the  apartment  house 
where  once  their  home  had  stood;  buildings  with  store 
fronts  outraged  the  sedate  old  houses  beneath  the  elms 
until  slowly  they  lost  courage  and  became  boarding 
places  for  clerks  from  the  outreaching  business  section. 

Slowly  the  downtown  stores  crept  away  from 
Main  Street  and  soon  people  transferred  from  car  to 
car  to  reach  their  different  shopping  destinations.  The 
Corners  became  dingy,  and  at  night  nearly  deserted; 
while  on  a  half-dozen  thoroughfares  the  glory  that  once 
was  theirs  blazed  forth  in  electric  lights  and  plate-glass 
display  windows  into  which  the  theatre  crowds  stared 
with  awe  and  longing  as  they  waited  for  their  home- 
bound  cars — cars  no  longer  small  and  lined  with  long, 
longitudinal  seats,  but  splendid,  bright,  and  big,  with 
electric  signs  and  demands  to  have  your  fare  ready  be- 
fore boarding  in  the  rear. 

New  fortunes  rose  to  formidable  dimensions,  from 
factories  whose  goods,  spread  far  and  wide  over  the 
land  even  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  lent  lustre  and  a  name  to 
the  city  which  was  just  conscious  of  their  presence. 

30 


THE  BALANCE  21 

Unfamiliar  names  appeared  on  the  signs  "For  Sale." 
The  strange  metal  animals  and  gods  and  goddesses  of 
the  front  lawns  of  the  old  aristocracy  disappeared  be- 
fore the  onslaught  of  the  landscape  architect  and  a 
newer  taste.  Fine  automobiles  went  speeding  far  out 
Washington  Avenue,  and  turned  in  at  big  new  houses 
of  mushroom  growth.  At  night  the  boxes  at  the 
theatres  gleamed  with  new  and  finer  jewels.  New 
figures  rose  and  spoke  at  Chamber  of  Commerce  din- 
ners while  Mr.  Schroeder  wondered  when  they  had  come 
to  town.  New  names  were  posted  on  the  bulletin 
boards  at  the  clubs.  Even  the  Schroeder  grocery  stores 
were  forgotten,  their  name  still  known  only  in  the  world 
of  real  estate  when  men  asked  each  other  where  Charles 
W.  Schroeder  got  the  money  to  buy  this  lot  or  that 
block.  To  cap  all  Mrs.  Schroeder  was  heard  one  day 
referring  to  the  nouveau  riche! 

Progress  could  do  no  more.  Melchester  had  become 
a  city  while  her  citizens  gossiped. 

Sammy  hardly  realized  it,  he  was  so  busy  enjoying 
himself. 

Evenings  at  the  Country  Club  or  at  dances,  after- 
noons of  bowling  or  tennis,  all  the  gay  parties  which 
made  up  the  life  of  Melchester's  younger  society  set 
before  the  town  became  a  great  city  filled  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  then.  Afterward  those  years  always 
seemed  to  him  like  an  indistinct  memory  from  some 
other  existence,  the  people  he  knew  then  mere  phan- 
toms of  a  youthful  dream,  his  love  affair  with  Carrie 
the  only  thing  projected  from  the  world  of  his  actual 
life — with  his  real  career  waiting  patiently  all  the  while 
for  its  beginning  in  the  streets  of  New  York. 

He  never  knew  how  that  affair  with  Carrie  began 
again,  never  could  put  his  finger  upon  any  incident  and 
say — here  it  began.  He  gravitated  toward  her  natur- 
ally, the  essential  sympathy  of  their  natures  obscured 
only  slightly  by  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth,  flaring 
into  a  conscious  passion  by  the  twin  accidents  of  pro- 
pinquity and  young  love. 


22  THE  BALANCE 

Years  later  he  could  see  the  wherefore  of  those  ac- 
tions of  Mrs.  Schroeder's  and  understand  the  hidden 
causes  of  the  youthful  drama  which  hurled  him  at  last 
into  the  current  of  raw  existence.  But  in  the  days  of 
his  early  twenties  he  did  not  analyze  the  nature  of  the 
world  he  set  about  conquering  so  nonchalantly.  Such 
analysis  did  not  seem  necessary  in  the  simple  concep- 
tion of  success  he  held  then.  His  horizon  was  bounded 
by  those  friends  of  his — friends  of  circumstance  and  en- 
vironment only — who  made  up  the  small  social  circle 
his  birth  entitled  him  to  in  Melchester  so  long  as  his 
finances  could  keep  him  there.  Success  appeared  to 
him  as  a  mere  continuing  in  the  path  in  which  a  kind 
Providence  had  placed  him. 

It  was  why  he  ignored  his  failure  in  English  and  his 
lack  of  a  college  education  and  chose  the  law  in  old 
religious  Mr.  Dabney's  office  in  the  Preston  Block; 
trying,  spasmodically,  to  write  plays  in  the  odd  mo- 
ments of  his  profession.  Those  plays!  Poor  Carrie! 
He  read  them  all  to  her  and  looked  for  applause.  It  is 
a  matter  for  wonder  that  she  did  not  notice  that 
strange  peculiarity  which  all  of  them  had.  He  counted 
afterward,  and  there  were  sixteen  plays  that  he 
started,  and  not  one  that  he  finished.  There  were  no 
last  acts.  He  always  lost  interest  before  they  were 
done. 

That  Mrs.  Schroeder  did  not  look  with  favour  upon 
the  tall,  slender  youth  who  studied  law  so  desultorily 
between  social  engagements  is  not  surprising.  It 
was  not  that  she  had  any  firmer  grasp  of  essentials 
than  our  Sammy;  it  was  because  she  saw  no  place  for 
him  in  the  growing  aristocracy  of  wealth  in  Melchester 
— and  wealth  was  her  standard.  Slowly  the  sesame  of 
the  Tappan  name  was  fading  even  among  those  to 
whom  old  Mr.  Tappan  and  Sammy's  parents  had  been 
real  breathing  people  and  not  names.  The  power  of 
the  old  families  was  dwindling. 

It  was  not  until  the  New  Year's  dance  at  the  Wash- 
ington Club,  however,  that  Sammy  ever  seriously 


THE  BALANCE  23 

entered  her  mind.  She  had  counted  upon  her  first 
warning  to  keep  Carrie  from  anything  foolish  before. 
Her  suspicion  took  its  first  look  around  then  as  she  sat 
in  the  little  balcony  and  watched  Carrie  dancing  with 
him  rather  oftener  than  seemed  actually  necessary. 

It  coloured  that  view  she  took  of  him,  coloured 
it  so  that  she  was  not  conscious  of  his  rather  fine  looks, 
his  clear  gray  eye,  his  dark  hair  and  brown  face,  re- 
deemed from  mere  good  breeding  by  the  latent  strength 
beginning  to  show  around  the  chin.  All  that  she  saw  as 
she  gazed  was  a  family  vanished,  and  a  fortune  with 
them,  and  a  young  man  of  dreamy  mind  left  to  make  his 
own  way  in  the  world — a  young  man  with  no  longer 
even  a  home  on  Hawthorne  Street  from  which  to  start 
out — his  home  a  room  on  the  discouraged  elm-lined 
street  where  the  business  clerks  were  boarding — and 
Annie,  his  nurse,  her  own  maid  now  in  the  house  on 
Washington  Avenue. 

"What  does  that  Tappan  boy  intend  to  be?"  she 
asked  Mrs.  Halton,  her  next-door  neighbour  but  one 
on  the  Avenue. 

Mr.  Schroeder  would  hardly  have  recognized  the 
correct  tone  of  his  wife's  voice  in  the  question.  The 
club  always  overawed  her  just  a  trifle.  In  spite  of  Mr. 
Schroeder's  membership  she  could  not  always  forget 
the  time  when  the  store — there  was  but  one  grocery 
then — had  supplied  the  club  with  its  food.  Thank 
Heaven  the  steward  of  those  days  was  dead  and  gone! 
It  had  been  one  of  the  first  questions  she  asked  when  her 
husband  brought  her  the  news  of  his  election;  and  she 
had  not  entered  the  hallowed  precincts  until  the  truth 
had  been  ascertained:  it  was  another  name. 

"A  lawyer,  I  believe/'  returned  Mrs.  Halton  list- 
lessly, in  response  to  the  half-forgotten  question. 

Her  son  would  have  a  factory  for  the  running  when 
he  graduated  from  college,  and  she  had  no  daughters — 
so  was  safe  so  far  as  impecunious  Sammies  were  con- 
cerned. 

"Humph!"  remarked  Mrs.  Schroeder  disdainfully. 


24  THE  BALANCE 

"A  scheme  to  have  a  good  time  and  call  it  work,  I 
suppose.  I  don't  know  what  the  world  is  coming  to. 
All  the  men  seem  to  be  either  fools  or  devils — though  as 
for  me,  give  me  a  devil!  They've  all  got  that  in  'em! 
But  I  never  could  stand  a  fool." 

Possibly  twenty-five  years  of  Mr.  Schroeder  had  in- 
fluenced her  taste. 

She  has  risen  now  to  pay  her  respects  to  Mrs.  Alden, 
however,  and  left  Sammy  thus  flat  upon  his  back, 
plainly  tagged  as  a  fool.  Mrs.  Alden  is  just  a  step 
higher  in  the  social  ladder,  you  see,  having  been  once 
or  twice  to  the  home  of  the  canal  boat  driver's  descend- 
ants— so  must  be  treated  with  due  consideration. 

But  Mrs.  Halton  is  not  properly  impressed. 

"She  wants  her  daughter  to  get  some  one  like  Fred,  I 
suppose,"  she  says  comfortably  to  herself.  Fred  is  the 
future  factory  owner,  distinguished  so  far  only  forspend- 
ing magnificent  sums  of  some  one  else's  money. 

As  she  watches  the  crowd  coming  out  from  supper, 
however,  she  is  forced  to  admit  that  of  them  all  the 
daughter  of  the  house  of  Schroeder  is  the  most  attrac- 
tive. She  is  not  exactly  beautiful,  she  reflects — to 
change  her  opinion  instantly,  as  Carrie  stands  for  a 
moment  smiling  at  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  her  charming 
figure  instinct  with  tenderness  and  grace,  her  face  say- 
ing all  unconsciously  in  every  curve  of  its  smile,  "I 
love  you,  Sammy!" 

How  plainly  her  dream  glowed  in  her  face  as  she  stood 
in  the  ballroom,  there!  That  dream  of  eternal  kindness 
she  always  had — herself  clad  in  the  furs  and  fine  rai- 
ment of  the  duchess  alighting  from  her  automobile  to 
help  past  the  dangerous  crossing  the  poor  and  ill-clad 
old  woman  who  stood  on  the  corner.  There,  Sammy, 
had  you  but  known  it,  glowed  the  inspiration  which 
the  world  has  called  yours.  Gone  your  farces,  your 
dramas,  your  pageants,  and  shining  through  the  mask  of 
characters  and  words  the  soul  of  Carrie  speaking  kind- 
ness. Had  Carrie  been  at  that  famous  dinner  of  the 
English  court  where  the  New  World  guest  aroused  the 


THE  BALANCE  25 

titters  of  the  courtiers  by  tucking  his  napkin  beneath 
his  chin  Queen  Victoria  would  not  have  been  the  first 
to  gravely  follow  suit  with  a  silent  rebuke  for  such  un- 
kind discourtesy. 

Well,  you  never  became  a  duchess,  Carrie,  and  dan- 
gerous crossings  have  their  traffic  officer  in  Melchester 
now — but  you  changed  the  dream  scene  later  anyway, 
so  it  does  not  matter.  You  could  not  bear  those  fine 
garments  when  the  old  woman  was  so  poorly  clad.  .  .  . 

It  was  in  the  early  summer  that  Mrs.  Schroeder  al- 
lowed her  suspicions  to  drive  her  into  action  so  that  she 
took  to  sitting  in  the  library  across  the  hall.  It  was  not 
her  love  for  books,  however,  that  led  her  to  select  the 
library.  Indeed  by  far  the  most  of  her  volumes  showed 
plainly  that  they  had  not  been  touched.  A  skilful 
writer  indeed  who  could  escape  the  displeasure  of  Mrs. 
Schroeder  and  not  be  branded  as  a  fool  before  he  had 
spoken  for  two  chapters  in  self-defense!  Conversa- 
tions in  the  drawing-room  could  be  overheard  without 
much  effort — that  was  the  secret  of  the  change. 

Mr.  Schroeder  grumbled  when  he  found  his  easy  chair 
gone  from  the  den;  but  his  revolt  was  feeble,  and  after 
the  first  outbreak  he  sat  sulkily  through  long  evenings 
enlivened  by  snatches  of  conversation  from  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  took  the  flavour  from  the  Democrat 
Herald  editorials  somehow  and  he  often  took  refuge 
in  sleep,  but  his  wife  could  hear  her  daughter  in  the 
next  room  and  was  satisfied.  The  banisters  had  been 
undignified. 

It  was  only  when  a  young  man  came  whose  voice 
was  low  and  infrequent  that  she  lost  patience  and  could 
with  difficulty  restrain  herself  from  bursting  forth  and 
crying  "louder ! "  through  the  curtains.  Such  young  men 
were  classed  as  fools  after  the  first  call,  and  ever  after 
discouraged. 

She  never  forgot  that  evening  when  S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan  called  and  she  listened  to  him  carefully  for  the  first 
time. 

"It  will  be  fine  to  be  a  lawyer,  Sammy,"  she  could 


26  THE  BALANCE 

hear  Carrie  saying  in  her  low  voice.  "There  are  such 
chances,  such  opportunities  for  being  some  one  big." 

"Yes,"  says  Sammy.  "And  it  isn't  just  working  for 
money.  I  don't  think  money  means  much  to  me." 

"To  me,  either,"  responds  Carrie,  in  a  glow.  "Be- 
yond the  chance  it  gives  one  of  doing  good." 

Oh,  for  a  photograph  of  Mrs.  Schroeder's  face! 

"You  see,  though,"  Sammy  goes  on,  "I  have  so 
little  money,  that's  the  trouble.  It  takes  so  long  to 
become  a  lawyer,  before  you  make  anything,  I  mean." 

"I  know,"  cries  Carrie,  "but  think  of  Lincoln — how 
he  worked  and  worked  and  read  by  the  fire  and  rode 
around  on  the  circuit  and  had  hardly  any  money — 
and  see  how  much  he  made  of  himself! " 

"But  we  can't  all  be  Lincolns,"  Sammy  answers.  In 
his  heart  he  is  saying,  "You  modest  devil!" 

"No,"  Carrie  cries,  a  little  flushed,  "but  we  can  all 
try!" 

In  the  library  Mrs.  Schroeder  is  bursting.  Lincoln, 
indeed!  The  day  for  Lincolns  has  gone  by. 

Sammy  seems  a  trifle  despondent. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  says  sombrely.  "It  means  get- 
ting so  far  behind  the  other  fellows — they'll  all  be  out 
and  married  and  making  money  before  I  have  even 
started." 

Carrie,  however,  is  thrilled. 

"The  right  girl  would  always  wait!"  she  cries  out. 
She  means  she  herself  would,  of  course.  "And  you 
would  do  something  for  the  world  in  the  end,  while  the 
others  would  never  go  beyond  just  making  money." 

She  is  a  youthful  altruist,  not  knowing  that  this  road 
she  is  urging  upon  S.  Sydney  Tappan  leads  to  the 
martyrdom  of  the  revolutionist  as  well  as  the  halo  of 
the  great  man,  and  that  no  signpost  marks  the  place 
where  the  ways  divide.  But  he  has  not  forgotten  those 
letters  to  his  mother  yet — and  he  shrinks  from  climbing 
upon  his  pedestal  so  soon  and  so  is  silent. 

"An  upright  lawyer  is  so  fine,"  Carrie  continues. 
"He  can  stand  for  so  much  in  the  world — and  oh,  I 


THE  BALANCE  27 

don't  know,  it  seems  as  if  there  were  so  much  to  be 
done — really  fine  things — like  stopping  all  this  poverty 
and  things  like  that — doesn't  it  seem  like  that  to  you, 
too?" 

Why,  the  girl  is  a  fool!  Mrs.  Schroeder,  in  the  next 
room,  makes  a  grimace. 

"Yes,  somebody  ought  to  write  a  play  on  poverty," 
Sammy  replies,  unconscious  prophet,  "and  make  every- 
body think  about  it!" 

Shades  of  all  the  revolutionists  since  time  began !  This 
youth  in  the  Schroeder  parlour  thinks  people  should  have 
the  subject  of  poverty  called  to  their  notice! 

The  irony  does  not  strike  Mrs.  Schroeder,  however,  as 
she  sits  in  the  library.  She  mutters: 

"A  play  indeed,  the  fool!" 

Why,  no  one  would  go  to  see  such  a  play,  she  thinks, 
provided  even  that  any  one  sufficiently  idiotic  could  be 
found  to  write  it.  Poverty,  indeed — it  is  their  own 
fault  if  they  are  poor,  those  wretched  frequenters  of 
saloons.  Let  them  work  and  save,  instead  of  asking 
people  to  write  plays  about  them.  Of  all  the  fools  this 
Tappan  boy  is  certainly  the  worst.  He  will  never  make 
a  dollar. 

That  Imp  of  Sammy's  is  feeling  the  sting  of  the  lash, 
meanwhile,  in  the  drawing-room  as  Carrie  continues: 

"I  just  know  you  could  do  things  like  that,  Sammy," 
she  cries  eagerly,  "because  you've  got  the  character 
and  the  ideals  and  the  perseverance!" 

Oh!  That  perseverance  of  our  Sammy's!  The 
Imp  disregards  all  the  facts  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  he  replies,  "that  is  why  Gordon  of  Khartoum 
was  always  my  hero — he  stayed  by  his  guns  until  the 
end,  and  died  for  it." 

It  is  not  until  Sammy  goes  down  the  steps  that  his 
English  course  recurs  to  him;  and  those  letters  from 
college;  and  those  unfinished  plays !  And  his  face  shows 
a  tiny  grim  look  in  the  half  light  of  Washington  Avenue's 
lamps.  He  is  catching  on  to  himself  a  little  more.  He 
has  no  perseverance  at  all. 


28  THE  BALANCE 

When  he  has  gone  the  storm  breaks  upon  Carrie. 

"I  don't  want  Sam  Tappan  coming  here  any  more, 
young  lady,"  her  mother  says  angrily,  as  the  front  door 
closes.  "I  won't  have  it.  It  is  time  he  was  sent  about 
his  business." 

Mr.  Schroeder  has  discreetly  folded  up  his  paper  and 
gone  to  lock  the  doors  and  windows.  If  there  is  to  be 
any  sending  of  people  anywhere  he  will  escape  while 
there  is  time. 

But  Mrs.  Schroeder's  blood  is  up,  and  discretion  cast 
to  the  winds. 

"Do  you  hear?"  she  says  angrily. 

In  Carrie's  eye  there  is  a  tiny  spark. 

"Why,  mother?"  she  asks  quietly. 

"  Because  I  don't  want  him  here,  that's  why  enough ! " 
says  Mrs.  Schroeder  loudly.  "The  next  time  he  comes 
here  I'll  show  him  the  door!" 

Mr.  Schroeder  has  spent  as  much  time  at  the  win- 
dows and  doors  now  as  he  feels  is  consistent  with  safety. 

"Well,  well,  now,"  he  begins,  apologetically  to  his 
daughter,  "there  are  lots  of  other  young  men." 

It  is  an  actual  situation  which  confronts  Carrie, 
however. 

"But  what  shall  I  tell  him,  father?"  she  repeats 
still  quietly. 

"Tell  him,"  her  father  repeats  vaguely,  "why,  just 
don't  have  him  come!"  Confound  these  reasons! 
Families  are  certainly  the  devil!  Why  must  they  al- 
ways have  reasons? 

"And  tell  him  nothing?"  she  repeats.  It  is  .as  much 
for  her  sake  as  for  Sammy's  that  she  wishes  to  know. 

"Oh,  tell  him  you  don't  want  to  see  him,  that's  all," 
says  Mrs.  Schroeder  angrily.  Such  talk  about  noth- 
ing! 

"But  that  isn't  the  truth,"  answers  Carrie.  "I  do 
want  to  see  him." 

"My  Lord!"  groans  Mrs.  Schroeder.     "The  truth!" 

"Fred  Halton  now,"  says  Mr.  Schroeder  clumsily, 
"have  Fred  come  and  call."  To  his  mind,  in  a  haze 


THE  BALANCE  29 

regarding  such  affairs,  this  is  a  helpful  suggestion,  his 
lovely  daughter  surely  being  able  to  have  whatever 
callers  may  be  desired  and  this  affair  apparently  being 
merely  a  matter  of  one  caller  or  another. 

Carrie,  however,  has  a  brief  glimpse  of  the  consola- 
tion offered  as  he  sits  during  a  call,  snapping  his  fingers 
loudly  to  give  an  impression  of  masculine  verve  to  all 
his  remarks — remarks  which  are  sadly  in  need  of  it, 
too. 

"I  don't  want  Fred  Halton  to  call,"  she  says  in  a  low 
tone.  Have  her  parents  no  feelings  ? 

"Well,"  says  her  mother  angrily,  "you've  seen  the 
last  of  Sam  Tappan,  anyhow!" 

"Perhaps  you  could  tell  him  better  when  you've 
had  some  sleep,"  says  Mr.  Schroeder  apologetically. 

Sleep!  Is  this  the  extent  of  her  parents'  comprehen- 
sion? She  shook  her  head.  To  the  end  of  her  life  she 
could  never  do  anything  of  which  that  conscience  of 
hers  did  not  approve. 

"I've  got  to  tell  him  the  truth,"  she  said  doggedly. 
"Don't  you  see  that  at  all,  mother?"  She  was  ceasing 
very  rapidly  to  be  a  child  as  she  stood  before  her  par- 
ents in  the  old  fancy  drawing-room — the  marks  of  the 
soul  shining  dimly  through  the  first  flush  of  youth. 
Her  mother  recognized  where  the  difficulty  lay  then. 

"Well,  tell  him  the  truth,  then,"  she  said  harshly. 
"So  long  as  you  keep  him  away!"  She  was  at  the  end 
of  her  patience. 

A  half-hour  later  the  storm  had  all  cleared  away, 
however,  as  she  went  humming  to  bed.  Sam  Tappan 
was  disposed  of,  at  least,  she  was  thinking. 

Only  in  Carrie's  room  down  the  hall  was  there  a  sign 
of  the  tempest.  She  could  hear  that  light  tune  of  her 
mother's  there  as  she  stared  into  her  mirror,  the  iron  of 
injustice  burning  into  her  soul.  Her  mother  could  even 
sing  while  she  gave  up  Sammy!  And  they  had  not 
told  her  after  all  just  why  she  must  give  him  up! 

Well,  she  must  tell  him  the  truth,  anyway,  to-morrow 
— that  at  least  she  has  promised.  As  for  the  rest 


30  THE  BALANCE 

As  she  stared  into  her  mirror  a  new  light  came  into 
her  eyes. 

Would  Sammy  give  her  up  so  easily,  too,  she  asked  of 
the  face  in  the  glass  ?  And  a  faint  blush  flooded  through 
her  cheeks  and  spread  down  her  slender  throat. 

He  had  said  he  had  perseverance! 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN  WHICH  CARRIE  TELLS  SAMMY  SOME  UNPALATABLE 
TRUTHS  WHICH  Do  NOT  TURN  OUT  BADLY  AT  ALL 

IT  is  less  than  twenty-four  hours  later  that  Sammy 
is  calling  again  at  the  house  on  Washington  Avenue,  all 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  his  partner  for  the  evening 
has  been  so  rudely  charged  with  the  duty  of  telling  him 
such  unpalatable  truths. 

He  has  been  quite  despondent  all  day  in  the  dusty, 
ill-lighted  office  in  the  Preston  Block,  watching  the 
slow  eddies  of  trade  which  drift  around  Washington 
Corners  like  backwater  from  the  swift  current  four 
blocks  away.  Success  at  the  law,  somehow,  has  lost 
all  its  attraction.  It  seems  more  like  a  dull  and  sombre 
path  leading  to  a  dry  and  dusty  old  age,  with  perhaps 
the  price  of  a  coffin  at  the  end,  than  a  heroic  career. 
The  real  heroes  are  that  brilliant  crowd  four  blocks 
away,  where,  glimpsed  through  the  frame  of  side  streets, 
the  bright  stream  of  life  roars,  its  colours  and  flags 
shining  magnificently  in  the  sunlight.  Success!  That 
is  success  out  there,  not  here  in  the  dusty  law  office 
with  the  picture  of  Lincoln  on  the  wall!  The  Imp  has 
been  straining  at  the  leash  all  day. 

Mixed  with  his  despondency,  too,  there  has  been  a 
new,  queer  feeling  about  Carrie.  Slowly  there  has  been 
growing  in  his  mind  the  conviction  that  he  cannot  live 
without  her.  What  chance  of  winning  her  will  this 
slow  hero  of  the  law  office  have  against  those  brilliant 
conquerors  of  commerce  out  there?  Success!  A  law- 
yer! Why,  there  is  but  one  god — Mercury.  He,  him- 
self, is  simply  falling  farther  and  farther  behind  that 
brilliant  crowd  which  is  surging  on  to  success  so  rapidly 

81 


32  THE  BALANCE 

on  the  routes  of  trade,  following  the  prophet  Gold. 
The  Imp  has  decidedly  sickened  of  the  solid  pathway  of 
the  law. 

Mrs.  Schroeder  is  calling  down  the  banisters  after 
her  daughter  now,  however,  as  she  goes  out  with  Sammy 
to  the  carriage: 

"Remember  what  I  said  last  night!  He  can't  come 
here!" 

She  is  quite  undaunted  by  the  sight  of  S.  Sydney 
Tappan's  silk  hat  in  the  hall.  Her  daughter  can  go  to 
dinner  dances  given  by  the  Dobbs,  but  Sam  Tappan 
shall  not  call.  She  has  been  in  somewhat  of  a  quan- 
dary all  day,  trying  to  decide  whether  the  Schroeder 
social  position  will  be  sufficiently  improved  by  her 
daughter's  attendance  at  the  dance  to  pay  for  the  risk 
run  by  Carrie  in  meeting  the  Tappan  boy  once  more. 
But  the  Dobbs'  overpowering  position  has  won  the  day. 

In  Carrie's  mind,  as  she  and  Sammy  drive  out  along 
the  river  road  toward  the  sunset,  there  is  an  unusual 
little  undercurrent  of  excitement,  questioning  her, 
thrilling  her,  making  her  heart  beat  and  her  pulses 
quiver  just  a  trifle  faster  than  usual.  She  has  been 
wondering  all  day,  since  early  morning,  just  how  Sammy 
will  take  what  she  has  to  say — wondering,  too,  just  how 
she  will  say  it,  and  when.  There  have  been  a  dozen 
times  already  when  she  has  not  been  able  to  remember 
at  all  how  she  will  put  it  to  him. 

It  is  why  she  sits  in  silence  as  they  drive.  Perhaps 
the  thing  will  work  itself  out  she  thinks,  the  telling 
perhaps  be  easier,  when  darkness  has  come  and  they 
can  walk  on  the  Country  Club  lawn  between  dances. 

Freddie  Halton  is  snapping  his  fingers  as  their  car- 
riage draws  up  and  they  alight  at  the  porte-cochere. 
On  the  railing  some  one  in  white  flannels  is  posing — 
Max  Stimpson,  making  it  a  point,  as  usual,  to  show 
himself  off  to  the  best  advantage.  Beyond  is  the 
crowd,  that  crowd  of  gay  young  people  who  represented 
life  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan  then. 

"Welcome  to  our  city,"  says  Asa  Dobbs  gaily,  hold- 


THE  BALANCE  33 

ing  out  his  hands  to  the  arriving  couple.  He  has  al- 
ways envied  his  old  roommate  the  chance  he  has  to  see 
Carrie  and  all  the  other  girls  while  he  himself  is  compelled 
to  plug  away  at  college. 

"How  is  dear  old  North  Ad?"  our  Sammy  asks,  with 
the  devilish  smile  that  always  goes  with  the  mention  of 
such  things  at  twenty-five. 

"Yes,"  Dorothy  Alden  breaks  in  roguishly,  "confess, 
Asa!  I've  been  hearing  the  wildest  tales!  Wild  and 
reckless!" 

Freddie  Halton  snaps  his  fingers  loudly. 

"Pooh!"  he  says,  "wild  oats,  Dot!  They  all  get 
over  it  when  they  grow  up."  He  has  just  graduated, 
and  is  about  to  join  our  Elder  Statesmen  if  his  remarks 
are  any  criterion  of  intention. 

"And  they  all  get  over  it!"  sings  Max  Stimpson,  so  as 
to  display  his  fine,  deep  tones. 

"Yes,"  says  Asa  ponderously,  "it  doesn't  last." 
And  they  file  in  to  dinner,  these  youths  who,  to  judge 
from  their  expressions,  have  tasted  life  to  its  dregs. 

It  seems  incredible  now  to  be  told  that  after  the 
dinner  has  started,  and  the  repartee  of  the  twenties 
is  flying  thick  and  fast,  there  rises  up  in  Sammy  a  great 
envy  of  these  old  friends  of  his;  and  yet  he  never  forgot 
the  odd  sensation  he  had  that  night.  It  was  that 
dramatic  devil  pulling  at  his  coat  tails  again — that  was 
the  explanation. 

"The  West  for  me  this  summer,"  Asa  was  saying 
with  an  air  of  high  adventure.  "BifF  and  I — you  re- 
member BifF,  Sam — we're  going  to  put  his  new  car 
through  to  the  coast.  Montana  and  the  Dakotas, 
through  Bismarck  and  the  Bad  Lands,  that  way!" 

Automobile  trips  are  still  classed  as  adventure. 

"All  mere  civilization,"  sneers  Max  Stimpson. 
"  Better  come  with  Fred  and  me  through  the  Hudson's 
Bay  country.  Just  canoes  and  duffle  bags,  and  a  frying 
pan  and  axe!" 

"You  bet!"  says  Freddie.  "That's  the  stuff!  The 
wilds  and  backwoods  for  mine  every  time!"  He  is 


34  THE  BALANCE 

evidently  trying  to  give  the  impression  of  one  of  Sir 
Henry  Morgan's  buccaneers  just  off  the  ship  for  an  even- 
ingin  the  town. 

That  Imp  can  contain  himself  no  longer  now,  and  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  is  filled  with  a  great  longing  to  resume 
this  old  life,  to  plunge  once  more  into  this  vista  of  mod- 
ern romance  and  high  exploit  which  his  companions 
are  opening  so  temptingly  before  him.  Why,  they  will 
have  gone  everywhere  and  seen  everything  worth  while 
in  life  while  he  sits  and  studies  in  his  stuffy  office  or 
perhaps  grubs  for  money  in  some  business!  What  is 
success  beside  a  career  of  adventure  that  takes  a  man  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth  to  return  him  home  browned  and 
lean  and  tough  like  whipcord  or  fine  steel,  with  a  halo 
of  daring  deeds  around  his  head  and  a  bag  of  strange 
stories  with  which  to  hold  the  men  at  the  club  enthralled 
until  far  into  the  morning?  He  would  have  left  for 
the  North  Pole  at  that  moment  had  there  been  no 
delay  in  starting.  Only  the  salad — and  later,  the 
dancing — saved  him. 

He  watched  the  dancing  quite  despondently.  An 
old  tune  had  brought  into  his  mind  a  long-past  scene. 
It  was  of  Asa  on  a  new  velocipede  on  Hawthorne  Street 
with  himself  standing  enviously  pressing  his  nose  to  the 
glass  the  better  to  see  him  disappear  toward  Washing- 
ton Avenue.  Well,  Asa  was  still  riding  the  velocipede, 
it  seemed,  while  he  himself  watched  enviously  from  the 
background — only  it  was  Montana  and  the  coast  now 
instead  of  the  far  shadows  of  Hawthorne  Street  into 
which  the  rider  was  about  to  disappear. 

He  turned  his  gaze  then  to  watch  Carrie,  an  odd  sen- 
sation filling  his  heart  as  he  looked  after  her  while  she 
and  Freddie  walked  out  upon  the  shadowy  lawn. 
Did  she  care  much  for  Halton,  he  wondered?  He  had 
never  considered  before  just  how  dangerous  any  of  these 
rivals  of  his  might  be.  He  might  have  pondered  more 
seriously  had  he  been  able  to  hear  Freddie  out  on  the 
links. 

"I  haven't  seen  you  in  the  longest  while,"  that  young 


THE  BALANCE  35 

gentleman  is  saying  earnestly  to  Carrie.  "You  seem 
to  have  so  many  engagements!" 

It  is  an  ominous  sign,  Freddie,  those  engagements! 

"I've  lots  of  books  I  want  to  send  you,"  he  continues. 

Carrie's  expression  changes  ever  so  slightly. 

"How  nice!"  she  says.  "But  you  won't  send  any 
yet,  will  you?  I  am  simply  rushed  to  death,  aren't 
you?  I  haven't  read  anything  in  weeks!" 

But  Freddie  is  either  not  rushed  to  death  or  is  think- 
ing of  something  else. 

"It  isn't  just  the  books,"  he  bursts  out.  "They're 
just  symbols — symbolic,  you  know,  of  all  the  things 
I  wish  I  could  do  for  you!" 

He  has  forgotten  to  snap  his  fingers  during  these 
remarks — an  omission  that  sends  a  little  shiver  over 
Carrie.  He  must  be  very  much  in  earnest. 

"Who  could  want  anything  to-night,  Freddie?"  she 
says,  a  trifle  hurriedly.  "Isn't  it  just  perfect  for  a 
dance?" 

But  the  dance  of  the  moonbeams  on  the  river  below 
them  has  no  more  charm  for  Freddie  than  that  other 
dance  upon  the  club  piazza  a  few  yards  away. 

"It  is  perfect  when  I  am  with  you,  Carrie,"  he  says 
in  a  low  tone.  "Somehow,  you're  not  like  the  other 
girls.  You  are  different." 

Carrie  laughs  as  lightly  as  she  knows  how.  She  rec- 
ognizes the  earmarks  of  the  speech. 

"You  just  think  I  am  this  minute,  Freddie,"  she 
says.  "You  needn't  jolly  me!  We  all  heard  of  your 
goings  on  in  Troy.  What  was  her  name?  Everybody 
in  Melchester  had  you  married  off  to  her  last  year. 
And  now  it's  me!"  And  she  bows  before  him  in  mock 
gratitude. 

But  Freddie  is  in  no  mood  to  jest. 

"Oh,  I  just  took  her  to  one  dance,"  he  says  irritably. 
"The  way  the  fellows  talk  makes  me  sick!" 

"Yes,"  answers  Carrie,  seizing  her  cue,  "none  of  us 
wants  to  settle  down  yet,  do  we?  I  know  I,  for  one, 
don't.  The  world  is  too  lovely.  Think  of  all  there 


36  THE  BALANCE 

is  to  see  that  those  stars  and  that  moon  gaze  down 
upon!" 

This  might  all  be  a  quotation  from  her  mother  ex- 
cept for  the  moon  and  stars. 

But  Freddie  is  doubtful. 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  that  kind,"  he  remarks. 
He  looks  at  her  a  moment.  "Somebody  will  carry  you 
off  one  of  these  days  before  the  rest  of  us  know  it. 
That's  what  I  think,"  he  ends  moodily.  He  has  caught 
sight  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  on  the  piazza. 

Poor  Freddie !  Have  some  of  Fate's  whispers  reached 
ears  for  which  they  were  not  intended  ? 

Carrie's  laughter  is  clear,  however,  reaching  even  to 
the  piazza  where  Sammy  stirs  so  uneasily  on  the  railing. 

"I'm  not  so  fatally  attractive  as  all  that,  Freddie," 
she  laughs. 

Freddie's  heart  nearly  bursts  then  with  the  courage 
it  takes  to  make  his  next  remark. 

"  I  think  you  are ! "  he  says. 

"Freddie!"  she  laughs  mockingly.  "Trying  to  flirt 
with  me!" 

She  will  not  be  serious.  It  is  the  natural  caution  of 
budding  womanhood.  Her  confusion,  however,  al- 
though it  does  not  appear  to  Freddie,  is  the  effect  which 
Fate  has  intended  to  produce.  Only  wonderment  at 
this  new  person  in  the  guise  of  Freddie  Halton  could 
ever  have  made  her  miss  the  music  of  that  new  dance 
beginning  upon  the  piazza.  It  is  the  next  dance,  a 
waltz  with  Sammy.  Halton  hears  it  with  a  sinking 
heart.  He  has  just  started  making  progress  and  now 
they  must  return  to  the  brightly  lighted  porch  where 
Sam  Tappan  will  take  Carrie  away  from  him.  It  was 
odd  the  way  he  fell  so  easily  into  the  role  of  the  heavy 
villain  then. 

"Another  encore,"  he  says  slyly,  motioning  toward 
the  twinkling  club.  "I  am  very  fortunate  to-night." 

Oh,  wicked  Freddie! 

"Let's  walk  then,"  says  Carrie  ingenuously.  "It's 
damp  standing  here."  Passing  and  repassing  other 


THE  BALANCE  37 

couples  will  be  safer  than  this  dark  spot  beside  the  river, 
she  thinks. 

That  is  why  they  walk  out  upon  the  moonlit  Ifnks 
instead  of  returning  to  the  club  piazza  where  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  sits  and  waits,  a  strange  feeling  gradually  over- 
whelming his  heart.  The  floor  is  filled  and  the  number 
in  full  swing  now  and  he  can  see  Carrie  and  Halton 
talking  earnestly  out  in  the  moonlight.  Can  it  be  that 
she  has  forgotten?  Or  is  it  that  she  does  not  care? 
Either  supposition  is  unbearable. 

Well,  there  are  other  girls,  he  thinks  grimly — Carrie 
is  not  the  only  one.  It  is  his  set  jaw  and  clenched 
hand  that  give  his  thoughts  the  lie,  however.  Foolish 
Sammy!  He  has  never  realized  before  the  place  she 
has  in  his  heart  because  her  favour  has  always  come  to 
him  so  easily,  so  frankly  bestowed.  Her  other  engage- 
ments have  always  faded  away  before  his  invitations, 
dances  with  her  requiring  only  that  he  write  them  down 
upon  her  program.  There  have  been  none  of  these 
quarrels  or  coquettish  misunderstandings  with  which 
young  ladies  sometimes  bedevil  their  anxious  suitors 
or  are  bedeviled  in  turn.  He  has  never  realized  the 
strength  of  his  desire  to  win  this  girl  for  himself,  because 
the  pathway  of  his  courtship  has  been  made  so  smooth 
by  their  mutual  attraction. 

He  is  realizing  it  now,  however,  as  his  pulses  throb 
with  a  new,  queer  pain.  Has  Halton  captured  her 
away  from  him,  he  wonders,  while  he  himself  has  been 
fatuously  wasting  his  time?  The  thought  is  unbear- 
able. It  is  the  first  billow  of  an  ocean  of  passion  which 
will  engulf  him — that  wave  of  feeling  that  is  so  plain 
in  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  dark  face.  No  Freddie  Halton 
shall  take  Carrie  away  from  him — no,  by  Heaven,  he 
wants  her  himself!  She  shall  not  be  captured  so  easily 
if  he  can  prevent  it — shall  not  forget  in  an  instant  all 
that  their  good  times  have  meant!  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  S.  Sydney  Tappan  is  thoroughly,  exquisitely 
conscious  that  he  cares  for  Carrie — that  he  must  have 
her  though  thousands  stand  in  between.  She  has 


38  THE  BALANCE 

acquired  a  value  of  a  sudden  that  cannot  be  esti- 
mated ! 

And  it  is  that  moment  that  Fate  chooses  for  bringing 
Carrie  and  Freddie  Halton  back  to  the  piazza. 

"Why,  isn't  this  an  encore?"  Carrie  asks  wonderingly 
of  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  as  he  stands  gazing  at  her  sternly. 
She  is  a  mixture  of  culprit  and  angel  in  his  mind. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  echoes  Halton  plausibly. 

But  Sammy  is  looking  at  Carrie  with  a  gl'ince  that  is 
new  to  her — a  glance  that  has  forgotten  the  existence 
of  Halton  in  its  desire  to  claim  the  girl  before  him. 

"It's  the  twelfth,"  he  replies,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that 
corresponds  oddly  with  his  glance.  There  is  something 
of  the  Final  Judgment  Day  in  both.  He  seems  hardly 
aware  that  Halton  has  disappeared,  muttering  some- 
thing about  a  partner,  and  that  Carrie  is  alone  in  front 
of  him. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  Sammy — I  didn't  know,"  she 
says  contritely,  holding  out  her  hands  in  an  unconscious 
gesture.  It  is  all  she  can  do  to  keep  one  of  them  from 
flying  to  her  throat. 

But  the  floodgates  inside  S.  Sydney  Tappan  are 
loosed  and  emotion  sweeps  full  tide  into  his  voice. 

"  Let'swalk,"  he  says  huskily, "  I  can'tdance  just  now." 

They  have  hardly  reached  the  path  beside  the  river 
before  the  tumult  inside  him  finds  expression.  He  loves 
her,  has  always  loved  her,  and  will  die  unless  she  loves 
him,  too. 

"Carrie!"  he  cries  passionately.  "Carrie,  tell  me  you 
love  me!  You've  go*t  to  tell  me!  I  can't  stand  not 
knowing  now!"; 

He  never  knew  afterward  whether  she  answered 
him  or  not.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  swept  her  into 
his  trembling  arms  the  next  moment,  and  kissed  her 
blindly  on  the  fresh,  cool  mouth  and  slender  throat,  and 
crushed  her  to  him  until  she  whispered,  "Let  me  kiss 
you,  too!"  to  bury  her  face  then  upon  his  shoulder,  half 
in  shyness  half  in  gladness,  her  loosened  hair  playing 
riot  across  his  cheeks.  He  did  not  need  to  have  her 


AM-HUT5- 
UTLE_ 


'I  forgot,  Sammy     .     .     .     /  cant  see  you  any  more!" 


THE  BALANCE  39 

answer  then.  Every  fibre  of  her  cried  it  aloud.  To  the 
day  of  his  death  he  never  forgot  that  first  instant  when 
he  held  Carrie  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  little  later  that  she  recollects,  with  a  gasp  of 
whimsical  horror,  her  mother's  parting  instructions  over 
the  banisters. 

"I  forgot,  Sammy,"  she  says  then,  half  laughing,  half 
sobbing.  "I  can't  see  you  any  more!" 

"Why  not?"  demands  Sammy  lightly.  All  conver- 
sation seems  a  trifle  distant,  far  away,  with  the  sweetness 
of  their  new-found  passion  so  fresh  upon  them. 

"Mother!"  says  Carrie,  unconscious  of  the  satire 
of  her  position  as  she  says  it.  She  sees  it  the  next  mo- 
ment. "She  doesn't  want  to  encourage  you!"  There 
is  a  funny  little  smile  on  her  face. 

Encourage!  Had  you  been  a  cartoonist,  Sammy, 
you  would  have  laughed  aloud.  As  it  was,  he  smiled. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  He  said  it  as  much  for  the 
sake  of  making  a  remark  as  anything. 

She  pressed  closer  to  him  to  ward  off  the  hurt  of  her 
answer. 

"  Because  you  aren't  rich,"  she  said.  It  was  odd  the 
way  she  hurried  the  rest  of  her  remark  so  that  he  could 
forget  the  beginning.  "As  if  that  made  any  difference! 
So  long  as  we  love  each  other  there  can't  be  anything 
else  that  matters  very  much." 

It  was  not  her  youth  that  prompted  the  remark, 
either.  Such  has  been  the  philosophy  of  lovers  since  the 
world  began. 

They  had  no  opportunity  for  discussing  that  aiways 
interesting  subject  just  then,  however.  A  voice  from 
the  piazza  was  shouting  out  their  names  in  a  tone  cal- 
culated to  reach  even  their  unheeding  ears. 

"Oh,  Sam!  Oh,  Carrie!  Good-night!  Sorry  you 
can't  be  with  us  this  evening!  Oh,  there  you  are! 
Well,  well!" 

"Good  gracious!"  blushed  Carrie  in  the  dark,  "do 
you  suppose  they  saw?"  and  drew  away  a  little  in- 
stinctively as  she  said  it. 


40  THE  BALANCE 

But  Sammy  drew  her  to  him  again. 

"They  wouldn't  have  called  us  if  they  had!"  he  an- 
swered wisely.  Manlike,  he  did  not  care  to  give  up  so 
quickly  what  he  had  just  won. 

To  both  of  them,  afterward,  the  rest  of  the  evening 
seemed  to  have  passed  almost  in  a  moment;  even  the 
ride  home  lasting  but  an  instant — an  instant  snatched 
from  paradise,  during  which  they  were  magically  and  all 
too  quickly  transported  to  Washington  Avenue. 

Clever  Sammy!  He  gave  the  coachman  two  dollars 
as  -they  approached  the  Schroeder  mansion  and  pur- 
chased thereby  a  half-hour  more  of  heaven  at  a  ridicu- 
lously low  price.  What  the  coachman  thought  he 
never  stopped  to  inquire  afterward.  But  they  drove 
back  to  the  deserted  club  where  Sammy  made  a  pre- 
tense of  getting  out  and  going  inside  in  search  of  some- 
thing. Whatever  it  was,  he  plainly  did  not  find  it, 
because  out  he  came  still  empty  handed  in  a  moment, 
and  they  drove  again  to  the  house  upon  the  elm-shaded 
avenue. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  Carrie  tiptoed  up  the  stairs 
to  her  room  in  an  effort  to  avoid  the  inevitable  head 
which  was  always  thrust  out  from  her  mother's  door 
whenever  any  late  member  of  the  family  sought  to 
avoid  the  publicity  connected  with  arriving  after  mid- 
night. 

Mrs.  Schroeder,  in  a  dressing-gown,  met  her  as  she 
opened  her  door,  however. 

"Did  you  tell  Sam  Tappan  what  I  told  you  to?"  she 
demanded.  She  had  just  returned  from  an  evening 
out  herself  so  was  still  wide  awake.  The  question  had 
not  been  absent  from  her  mind  since  the  door  closed 
behind  Carrie  at  six. 

The  reply  was  all  that  she  could  reasonably  expect. 

"Yes,  mother,"  Carrie  answered  in  a  low  voice.  It 
was  low,  this  time,  because  she  felt  the  deception  of  her 
answer,  and  her  conscience  was  crying  out  for  a  full 
reply. 

But  her  mother  gave  her  no  opportunity  just  then. 


THE  BALANCE  41 

She  was  not  thinking  of  her  daughter,  nor  noticing  that 
new  look  of  starry  happiness  in  her  eyes — Sam  Tappan 
had  been  told,  and  that  affair  was  off  her  mind  at  last. 
That  was  all. 

"Well,  thank  God  for  that!"  she  said  half  to  herself. 
She  could  sleep  easily  again. 

As  for  Carrie,  I  am  sure  that  she  was  satisfied,  too. 
Sammy  had  taken  his  dismissal,  I  should  say,  very  well 
indeed! 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   WHICH    SAMMY   HAS   AN   INTERVIEW  WITH  MR. 
SCHROEDER  AND  RESOLVES  TO  IMITATE  HlS  EXAMPLE 

IT  WAS  a  strangely  agitated  S.  Sydney  Tappan  who 
sat  in  the  law  office  in  the  Preston  Block  the  day  after 
the  dance  at  the  Country  Club.  He  had  arisen  to  pleas- 
ant reflections — reflections,  I  need  hardly  state,  of  a 
certain  young  lady.  He  can  never  forget,  he  has  told 
himself  all  day,  the  shyness  of  her  passionate  surrender 
nor  her  whispered  words  of  love.  The  world  consists  of 
little  except  Carrie  to  him  just  now.  He  is  in  the  law 
office  to  be  sure,  but  simply  for  the  purpose  of  waiting 
until  two  o'clock  can  arrive  so  that  he  can  call  her  on 
the  telephone.  Two  o'clock  is  the  hour  when  the 
family  has  scattered  to  its  several  diversions;  and 
until  then  life  is  quite  barren,  a  desert  to  be  traversed 
with  infinite  dreariness. 

Two  miles  away,  however,  events  are  transpiring 
which  will  add  a  distinct  liveliness  to  the  journey's  end. 
Freddie  Halton  is  having  breakfast  with  his  mother. 

"You  shouldn't  stay  so  late  at  the  dances,  Freddie," 
she  is  saying  anxiously.  Freddie  is  quite  pale,  perhaps 
from  his  efforts  to  dispose  of  poached  eggs  before  set- 
ting forth  for  that  factory  which  began  some  hours 
ago. 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  growls,  forgetting  to  snap  his 
fingers.  He  has  forgotten  to  do  so  since  that  moment 
upon  the  piazza,  the  night  before  when  he  surrendered 
Carrie  to  Sam  Tappan. 

"Was  it  a  nice  dance?"  his  mother  inquires. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  admits.  "Only  everybody  is  getting 
so  twosy ! "  He  makes  a  little  gesture  of  disgust. 

42 


THE  BALANCE  43 

Mrs.  Halton  scents  gossip  from  afar  with  the  trained 
nose  of  the  middle-aged  matron. 

"Ridiculous,  at  your  age!"  she  says.  She  herself 
was  married  .at  this  same  age  which  her  Freddie  has 
attained.  But  we  forget  our  youth  as  quickly  as  is  pos- 
sible. It  is  more  convenient  so.  "Mrs.  Schroeder  and 
I  were  talking  about  it  at  the  club.  Young  people 
are  so  silly.  I  hope  you  won't  get  all  tied  up  with  some 
girl  at  your  age!"  She  is  wondering  what  young  lady 
has  been  casting  eyes  upon  her  heir  apparent. 

"No  danger,"  says  Freddie,  half  humorously.  "If 
I  were  Mrs.  Schroeder  I'd  keep  an  eye  on  Carrie, 
though.  Sam  monopolizes  her  so  nobody  else  gets 
even  a  chance.  Max  had  to  shout  for  them  before 
they'd  come  in  last  night."  He  is  almost  spiteful  as 
he  reviews  the  events  of  the  evening  before. 

"I'm  sure  /  don't  know  what  she's  thinking  of — to 
allow  it!"  says  Mrs.  Halton.  This  bids  fair  to  be  in- 
teresting. 

There  is  a  spark  of  youthful  honour  in  Freddie,  how- 
ever. 

"Oh,  Sam  is  all  right,  I  guess,"  he  says. 

"Well,  he  can't  support  her  for  a  minute,"  rejoins 
his  mother  pityingly.  "Some  one  ought  to  tell 
her!" 

She  does  not  mean  that  Carrie  should  be  informed. 
She  means  some  one  ought  to  tell  Mrs.  Schroeder. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  news  to  that  lady  to  be  told  that  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  is  courting  her  daughter. 

It  is  why  she  calls  for  Mrs.  Schroeder  at  eleven 
o'clock,  ostensibly  to  take  her  shopping.  It  may  be 
that  this  bit  of  news  will  be  in  the  nature  of  a  bomb. 
If  such  should,  happily,  be  the  case,  she  wishes  to  be 
where  she  can  see  the  carnage  close  at  hand.  She 
does  not,  therefore,  waste  any  time. 

"The  young  people  are  so  frightfully  up  to  date  these 
days,  aren't  they?"  she  says  in  her  tired  voice. 

"They're  plain  fools,  if  you  ask  me,"  her  victim  re- 
sponds. 


44  THE  BALANCE 

Mrs.  Halton  lights  the  fuse  then,  as  they  turn  into 
the  traffic  of  the  downtown  section. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "I  told  my  Freddie  very  plainly 
this  morning  that  he  needn't  indulge  in  any  of  this 
'twosing' — as  they  call  it.  I  don't  want  any  daughter- 
in-law  presented  to  me  before  she  is  out  of  short  dresses!" 

Twosing!     Expressive  simile! 

Mrs.  Schroeder  takes  the  bomb  to  her  bosom. 

"What  twosing?"  she  asks  grimly.  She  only  knows 
of  certain  calls. 

"Well,  Freddie  admitted  that  the  dance  at  the  club 
last  night  was  simply  no  fun  at  all,  because  the  party  was 
split  into  little  couples  who  didn't  even  take  the  trouble 
to  come  to  the  veranda  to  dance — except  every  now  and 
then.  Imagine!  At  their  age!  It's  too  ridiculous. 
All  those  girls  ought  to  marry  men  at  least  ten  years 
older.  How  can  those  boys  make  enough  money  to 
marry  them?  Unless  we  parents  step  in  and  give  our 
countenance  to  the  whole  thing!  Which  I  for  one  won't 
do.  We  simply  shouldn't  allow  it!  We  are  just  stor- 
ing up  trouble  for  ourselves  if  it  goes  on." 

Mrs.  Schroeder  gives  a  short  laugh.  "It's  what  I 
gave  Carrie  to  understand  about  that  Sam  Tappan," 
she  says.  "There's  one  twosing  party  that  is  broken 
up!" 

There  will  be  no  one  to  give  any  countenance  to  our 
Sammy,  you  see.  But  Mrs.  Halton  is  watching  the 
short  fuse  now. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  know  about  it  then,  Elsa,"  she 
sighs  sweetly.  "I  was  wondering  whether  or  not  I 
should  tell  you  about  last  night!" 

Bang!     It  is  the  bomb! 

"Last  night!"  says  Mrs.  Schroeder,  turning  sharply 
to  her  friend.  "  What  about  last  night  ? " 

"Oh,  you  don't — you  hadn't —  '  stammers  Mrs. 
Halton  in  excellent  confusion. 

"No.  I  don't.  You  tell  me  this  moment,  Grace 
Halton,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Schroeder  energetically.  What 
a  splendid  victim  she  makes! 


THE  BALANCE  45 

"I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  it  for  worlds,  positively 
worlds!"  murmurs  Mrs.  Halton.  "Only  I  thought, 
that  is  I  understood — that  what  you  were  referring 

to "  she  stops,  a  splendid  picture  of  kind  heartedness. 

The  victim,  however,  is  determined,  now,  to  know. 

"Go  on,"  she  commands,  compressing  her  lips. 

A  sudden  rush  of  confidence  seems  to  overwhelm 
Mrs.  Halton.  She  will  tell  her  friend,  no  matter  how 
unpleasant  it  may  be  for  both  of  them.  The  truth, 
after  all,  should  be  our  first  consideration. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "they  were  all  talking  about  it, 
Freddie  said.  It  was  so  noticeable.  Max  Stimpson 
calling  and  calling  for  them — Carolyn  and  the  Tappan 
boy — and,  well,  they  simply  weren't  at  the  dance  at  all! 
Just  out  on  the  links  together,  in  the  pitch  dark  all 
evening!  There!  I  am  so  glad  I  told  you.  I  have 
just  felt,  ever  since  I  heard  it,  that  I  should  tell  you. 
Not,  of  course,  Elsa,  that  there  was  anything  wrong 
going  on — but  you  know  what  young  people  are.  And 
how  people  do  talk!" 

I  fear  there  is  no  one  who  knows  that  any  better 
than  these  two  riding  in  the  electric.  They  are  author- 
ities on  how  people  do  talk  in  Melchester.  If  medals 
were  only  given  for  the  gentle  art  they  would  stand 
an  excellent  chance  for  the  gold  and  silver  ones.  Ob- 
serve how  the  episode  at  the  dance  has  grown  beneath 
Mrs.  Halton's  skilful  touch!  Of  such  stuff  is  scandal 
made. 

"Her  father  shall  hear  of  this,"  says  Mrs.  Schroeder, 
in  a  tone  of  suppressed  fury.  So  this  is  how  she  dis- 
courages S.  Sydney  Tappan!  The  wild  humour  of 
calling  in  Mr.  Schroeder  as  an  avenging  Nemesis  does 
not  seem  to  strike  her  at  all. 

Mrs.  Halton,  however,  is  a  little  fearful  lest  her  bomb 
has  made  too  big  an  explosion. 

"Now,  I  wouldn't  do  anything  hasty,  Elsa,"  she  says 
sweetly.  "It  may  all  be  terribly  exaggerated,  you 
know.  I  am  sure  Carolyn  seems  like  a  very  sensible 
girl." 


46  THE  BALANCE 

"Well,  she'll  hear  some  sense  from  her  father  and 
me,  I  can  tell  you  that,"  says  Mrs.  Schroeder,  though 
Mr.  Schroeder  is  sitting  just  now  in  the  office  in  the 
yellow  brick  building  figuring  on  hams,  and  is  not  in 
the  least  aware  of  the  honour  that  is  being  thrust  upon 
him. 

The  roar  of  traffic  runs  past  the  Halton  electric  as  the 
two  women  draw  up  before  Jansen's  Exclusive  Ladies' 
Tailoring  Establishment,  just  ofFthe  Main  Street. 

"Don't  wait  for  me,  Grace,"  says  Mrs.  Schroeder,  as 
she  alights.  "  Jansen  is  always  so  particular.  It  takes 
positively  hours  for  the  simplest  thing." 

She  means,  of  course,  that  she  wishes  to  call  up  the 
husband  who  sits  in  the  yellow  brick  building  and  figures 
on  hams.  His  job  is  cut  out  for  him  now.  She  will 
not  always  do  all  the  work.  .  .  . 

As  he  left  the  yellow  brick  building,  just  an  hour 
later,  Mr.  Schroeder  was  visibly  disturbed.  Curse  this 
Tappan  boy,  anyway!  Why  should  he  pick  on  Carrie, 
when  Mrs.  Schroeder  was  so  unalterably  opposed  to  the 
idea?  Of  the  general  case  Mr.  Schroeder  knew  only 
what  his  wife  had  been  pleased  to  tell  him,  in  those 
hours  just  before  falling  off  to  sleep  when,  as  a  rule,  he 
received  his  instructions;  but  he  knew  that  the  Tappan 
boy  must  be  extremely  undesirable.  If  he  could  have 
had  five  minutes  alone  with  Sammy,  and  told  him  the 
truth,  he  would  have  confided  in  him  that  there  was 
absolutely  no  chance.  Mrs.  Schroeder  objected.  As 
it  was,  he  knew  that  he  would  have  to  convince  his 
daughter  that  her  mother  was  right — and  he  shrank 
from  the  idea. 

This  it  was  that  disturbed  him  so  visibly.  He  was 
not  so  sure  of  himself  when  he  thought  of  his  eldest 
daughter.  So  far  in  life  his  business  had  stood  him 
in  good  stead.  Life  appeared,  by  and  large,  to  consist 
mostly  of  food.  It  seemed  to  him  that  when  he  had 
not  been  engaged  in  the  buying  and  selling  of  foods,  he 
had  been  busy  discussing  them  with  interested  listeners. 
But,  somehow,  he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  this  daughter 


THE  BALANCE  47 

of  his  had  lost  interest  in  ideas  of  this  kind — if  indeed 
she  had  ever  entertained  them  very  seriously.  What 
people  could  find  to  engage  their  attention  when  foods 
had  been  definitely  disposed  of,  he  himself  could  not 
imagine.  It  was  why  he  had  had  that  strange  feeling  of 
insecurity  of  late  when  confronted  with  the  clear  eyes 
and  gaze  of  his  daughter.  He  had  an  idea  which 
amounted  almost  to  a  conviction  that  she  was  thinking 
of  things  with  which  he  was  not  familiar. 

His  position  in  his  business,  these  last  few  years,  had 
been  that  of  the  autocrat  secure  in  his  place;  his  partner- 
ship in  Hopkinson,  Balmer  &  Lawrence  giving  him  a 
sense  of  importance  which  the  mere  leadership  of  the 
groceries  had  never  seemed  to  impart.  The  taste  of 
power  resultant  had  rather  gone  to  his  head,  its  plainest 
outlet,  perhaps,  being  a  loud  habit  of  talking  and,  when 
his  decisions  for  any  reason  were  called  in  question,  a 
disagreeable  way  of  pounding  on  handy  tables  and 
chairs  to  drive  home  his  point. 

He  had  found  this  rather  an  easy  method  of  quelling 
incipient  riots  among  his  offspring,  lately.  He  simply 
yelled  at  them,  and  they  subsided.  But  somehow,  he 
felt,  it  had  rather  lost  its  force  with  Carrie  these  last 
few  months.  There  seemed  something  lacking  in  the 
effect  it  produced  on  her. 

It  was  why  he  sighed  as  he  mounted  the  steps.  Curse 
the  Tappan  boy,  anyhow!  It  was  going  to  be  a  most 
disagreeable  affair. 

Over  the  luncheon  in  the  old-fashioned  dining-room, 
with  the  heavy  oak  furniture  and  bespangled  walls, 
there  hung  the  ominous  silence  that  always  preceded  a 
family  storm.  Mrs.  Schroeder  ate  with  a  frown  that 
made  the  two  younger  offspring  doubtful  of  eating  at 
all.  They  always  steeled  with  the  wind.  On  Mr. 
Schroeder's  countenance  there  was  the  look  of  the  stern 
parent  outraged.  Hovering  over  Carrie,  invisible  to 
all  but  ourselves,  there  floated  for  the  last  time  the 
shadow  of  Elsie  Dinsmore,  the  girl  who  was  so  good  in 
those  stories  of  girlhood  that  it  is  a  source  of  constant 


48  THE  BALANCE 

wonder  that  she  never  died  of  it.  Carrie,  herself,  is 
emerging  from  the  mist  of  youth  to-day,  although  as 
yet  pnly  flashes  of  vision  illuminate  her  landscape. 
God  and  her  father  are  still  a  little  mixed  in  personality, 
obligations  to  her  family  and  to  her  own  self  still  tangled 
in  one  skein,  might  and  right  not  yet  abstractions,  to  be 
separated  and  examined.  A  few  remarks  which  her 
mother  has  let  fall  on  entering  the  house  have  left 
her  little  doubt  as  to  the  character  of  the  tempest  so 
plainly  discernible  in  the  offing — Sammy  is  to  be  finally 
disposed  of.  Just  what  she  herself  will  think  or  do,  she 
cannot  see  yet  through  that  drifting  mist. 

The  first  drops  of  the  storm  are  falling  now,  however. 
Let  us  lean  forward  a  little  and  listen — as  Annie  is 
doing  behind  the  pantry  door.  It  is  her  Sammy  of 
whom  they  are  talking.  Mr.  Schroeder  has  determined 
to  be  diplomatic.  So  the  stern  parent  will  open  the 
attack  rather  gently. 

"What  is  this  I  hear  about  last  night,  Carolyn?"  he 
asks,  as  he  finishes  his  pie  and  pushes  back  from  the  table. 

This  use  of  her  full  name  tells  Carrie  the  storm  is 
about  to  break.  These  parents  are  formidable  to  the 
girl  of  twenty-three,  and  she  has  to  struggle  to  keep  her 
composure.  She  must  do  what  is  right,  and  still  man- 
age to  keep  her  secret. 

"I  don't  know  just  what  you  mean,  father,"  she  re- 
plies quietly.  There  is  just  a  suspicion  of  a  tremor  in 
her  voice. 

"You  know  well  enough,  I  guess,"  says  her  mother 
angrily.  "IIP  you  don't,  you  ought  to.  The  whole 
town  is  talking  about  you."  The  other  two  offspring 
have  hurriedly  bolted  their  dessert  now,  and  proceed 
to  make  their  escape  before  they  shall  be  drawn  into  the 
fray.  They  are  younger,  and  have  not  been  to  the 
dance. 

"Talking  about  what?"  Carrie  asks  quietly.  Did 
some  one  see,  after  all,  she  wonders.  It  is  all  she  can 
do  to  keep  back  the  blush  which  threatens  to  spread 
its  telltale  colour  through  her  cheeks. 


THE  BALANCE  49 

"Your  actions  last  night,  of  course,"  says  her  mother. 
"Spending  the  evening  out  on  the  links  with  Sam  Tap- 
pan — after  all  my  talking.  I  don't  know  what  you  can 
be  thinking  of." 

It  is  the  side  issue  that  Carrie  seizes  immediately. 

"It  wasn't  all  evening,"  she  says.  "We  just  walked 
for  a  couple  of  dances." 

"I  don't  care  if  it  was  two  dances  or  ten,"  her  mother 
replies  angrily.  "I  won't  have  it!"  The  flame  we 
saw  lighted  in  Carrie's  eyes  that  night  of  Sammy's  call 
burns  bright  now. 

"But  it's  not  true!"  she  cries.  "Who  told  you  it 
was  all  evening?" 

Her  father  feels  that  he  has  been  silent  too  long. 

"It  makes  no  difference  who  told  your  mother,"  he 
says  sternly.  "This  Tappan  business  has  got  to  be 
stopped." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Carrie  ever  rebelled.  She 
raised  her  head  then,  and  looked  at  him  clearly. 

"Why?  "she  asked. 

It  was  then  that  Mr.  Schroeder  raised  his  voice,  and 
pounded  on  the  table  a  trifle. 

"It  doesn't  make  any  difference  why,  young  lady!" 
he  shouted.  "You'll  obey  your  parents  and  cut  out 
this  fellow !  Do  you  hear  me  ? " 

His  question  was  rather  futile.  They  could  hear  him 
even  out  in  the  kitchen. 

"But  why?"  asked  Carrie,  again.  It  was  the  begin- 
ning of  her  frightful  desire  to  know  the  reason  of  every- 
thing. It  gave  her  father  a  splendid  opportunity  for 
banging  the  table,  however.  I  do  not  think  he  ever 
quite  forgave  his  wife  for  the  way  she  forestalled  him. 
His  expression,  as  she  spoke,  was  that  of  a  man  from 
whom  a  table  has  been  snatched  away  just  as  he  is 
about  to  pound  it  magnificently. 

"Because  we  won't  have  it,  that's  why,"  she  re- 
sponded coldly.  She  was  clever  enough  to  keep  from 
putting  the  idea  of  marriage  into  her  daughter's  head. 
Her  husband  upset  the  kettle  the  next  moment. 


50  THE  BALANCE 

"I  don't  know  what  the  boy  is  thinking  of!"  he  said 
heavily.  "How  can  he  support  a  wife  on  his  income!" 

"Good  heavens,  Charlie!  It  isn't  a  question  of 
marriage,  not  yet!"  Mrs.  Schroeder  exclaimed.  "If 
he  was  anybody  he  wouldn't  try  to  monopolize  all  the 
girl's  time  when  he  isn't  in  any  position  to  marry. 
That  is  the  point!" 

There!     That  is  the  point,  Mr.  Schroeder! 

"What  does  he  intend  to  be?"  he  asks  his  daughter. 
He  has  his  cue  now. 

"A  lawyer,"  says  Carrie,  in  a  low  tone. 

"A  lawyer!  Humph!"  her  father  returns.  "That 
takes  a  long  time." 

"Ten  years,"  said  Mrs.  Schroeder,  in  her  most  un- 
pleasant way.  "When  he  is  able  to  marry,  he  will 
want  some  nice  young  girl  then.  That  is  what  always 
happens.  Any  girl  who  waits  for  a  man  is  a  fool!" 

"Yes,"  adds  Mr.  Schroeder.  "If  he  can't  marry  you, 
Carrie,  he  ought  to  leave  you  alone."  I  think  he  al- 
ways really  liked  his  daughter  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
they  could  never  agree. 

But  Carrie  has  learned  more  in  the  last  ten  minutes 
than  in  all  her  life  before  regarding  her  intentions. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  leave  me  alone,"  she  says,  with 
an  effort.  She  has  hardly  admitted  to  herself  before 
how  much  she  cares  for  S.  Sydney  Tappan.  But  her 
parents  have  opened  her  eyes  to  the  extent  of  her  in- 
tentions in  regard  to  him.  She  will  marry  him,  if 
he  will  have  her. 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it!"  says  her  father. 
"The  boy  should  consider  your  chances." 

"My  chances  of  what?"  asks  Carrie,  surprisingly 
steadily. 

"Making  a  good  marriage,  of  course,"  replies  her 
mother  witheringly.  The  girl  can't  be  a  fool. 

But  Carrie  is  determined  to  follow  out  her  course 
now. 

"What  is  a  good  marriage?"  she  asks  curiously. 

"Marrying  somebody — not  that  young  fool,"  replies 


THE  BALANCE  51 

her  mother  angrily.  She  was  never  good  at  explana- 
tions. They  required  real  reasons. 

"Somebody  who  can  support  you  the  way  you  have 
been  used  to,"  adds  Mr.  Schroeder.  This  style  of 
remark  always  seems  to  shed  a  sort  of  glory  on  him,  he 
thinks.  It  usually,  too,  eliminates  the  boy. 

"  But  we  don't  want  to  be  married  yet,"  says  Carrie. 
She  would  have  said  that  there  was  no  question  of 
marriage  between  them  had  it  not  been  for  that  con- 
science of  hers.  She  could  not  seem  to  hide  from  her- 
self the  real  truth. 

Mrs.  Schroeder  heaves  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Well,  you  won't  get  a  chance,"  she  says  trucu- 
lently. 

In  Carrie,  too,  there  is  a  great  feeling  of  relief  that 
the  conversation  is  taking  this  turn.  The  affair  upon 
the  links  bids  fair  to  be  forgotten,  at  least. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can  stop  having  anything  to  do 
with  him  just  because  he  isn't  rich,"  she  says. 

Her  mother,  however,  is  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"You  don't  have  to  see,"  she  says  majestically. 
"Your  father  will  attend  to  that." 

But  Mr.  Schroeder  does  not  relish  the  job. 

"Well,  now,  Elsa "  he  begins.  But  his  wife 

cuts  him  short. 

"The  boy  can't  marry  her,"  she  says  icily.  "The 
sooner  it's  done,  the  better  for  both.  She  would  tell 
him  herself  if  she  wasn't  a  ninny."  She  rises  then,  and 
folds  her  napkin.  "He  will  never  be  anybody.  He  is 
one  of  these  dreamers!" 

"I  think  he  will  be  somebody  some  day,"  Carrie 
cries  after  her.  But 

"Oh,  you!"  says  Mrs.  Schroeder.  She  herself  has 
heard  some  of  this  particular  young  man's  drawing- 
room  conversation,  and  he  is  a  fool.  Where  the  girl 
has  gotten  these  ideas  she  cannot  imagine.  Perhaps 
the  boy  has  pulled  the  wool  over  her  eyes.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  Sammy  began  to  change  a  little  in  her 
mind.  He  was  executing  the  first  step  around  the 


52  THE  BALANCE 

corner  from  fool  to  scoundrel  then.  He  will  be  a 
scoundrel  full  grown  before  long. 

"Well,"  says  Mr.  Schroeder  gloomily.  "I  will  see 
the  boy,  myself."  He  is  gloomy  because  at  heart  he  is 
rather  a  mild  person;  and  he  does  not  find  the  pro- 
spective interview  attractive.  It  is  merely  inevitable. 

It  is  an  hour  later  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  ascends  the 
steps  on  Washington  Avenue.  He  has  been  hastily 
warned  of  his  approaching  fate  in  a  whispered  telephone 
message  from  Carrie,  but  though  his  hands  are  a  trifle 
clammy  as  he  closes  the  door  of  the  den  behind  him,  he 
is  putting  up  a  bold  front.  After  all,  you  see,  this  is 
the  part  of  the  hero!  And  our  Sammy  is  always  at 
home  in  the  dramatic  scenes. 

Mr.  Schroeder,  however,  does  not  seem  to  have  a 
proper  appreciation  of  heroics  this  afternoon.  A  re- 
membrance of  his  own  boyhood  has  come  back  to  him 
as  the  young  man  before  him  stands  fumbling  uncer- 
tainly with  his  hat.  He  was  not  always  fifty,  and  a 
retired  grocer,  you  see.  After  all,  what  has  he  against 
this  young  man  who  has  charmed  his  hitherto  submis- 
sive daughter  into  such  revolt  against  authority?  I  am 
afraid,  Mrs.  Schroeder,  you  should  have  stood  outside 
and  shouted  advice  to  your  better  half  through  a  key- 
hole. He  is  fast  forgetting  his  arguments.  It  is  with  a 
distinct  shock,  indeed,  that  he  is  brought  to  the  busi- 
ness in  hand  by  the  voice  of  our  Sammy. 

"Sit  down,  Sam,"  he  says  affably  then.     "Sit  down." 

A  good  half  of  the  heroics  fly  out  the  window  as  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  sits  down.  There  is  evidently  to  be 
no  battle  at  all,  merely  a  discussion. 

"It  is  about  Carolyn,"  Mr.  Schroeder  continues, 
lighting  a  cigar,  and  offering  our  Sammy  another. 
There  is,  of  course,  nothing  about  which  to  get  excited, 
he  is  thinking.  It  is  a  mere  matter  of  explanation 
to  this  young  man  before  him,  an  explanation  of  a  self- 
evident  fact.  The  young  man  is  in  no  position  to  marry. 
That  it  may  be  a  youthful  tragedy  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
and  to  the  clear-eyed  daughter  who  awaits  the  issue  with 


THE  BALANCE  53 

such  tightly  clenched  hands  in  the  drawing-room,  does 
not  appear  to  him.  He  is  a  man  of  little  imagination. 
If  the  discussion  should  degenerate  into  an  argument, 
why  there  is  the  old  library  table  beside  him!  What- 
ever is  not  perfectly  clear,  he  will  pound  home  on  that. 

"I  just  wanted  to  give  you  a  word  of  advice,"  he 
says,  gazing  carefully  at  his  cigar.  "Carolyn  is  too 
young  to  spend  all  her  time  with  any  one  person,  any 
one  young  man,  Sam.  Her  mother  and  I  don't  like 
to  see  it.  You  young  people  are  in  no  position  to  be 
married,  or  even  engaged.  Take  my  advice  and  leave 
Carrie  alone  for  a  few  years  yet — till  you  have  made 
some  money,  and  can  give  the  girl  what  she  has  been 
used  to." 

He  heaves  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  has  put  it  much  better 
even  than  he  thought  possible. 

I  fear  the  youth  opposite  him,  however,  does  not 
appreciate  the  fine  points  of  the  presentment.  A  few 
years,  he  is  thinking!  Ye  Gods!  A  few  years!  I 
wonder,  Mr.  Schroeder,  did  you  ever  figure  up  a  few 
years  when  you  were  young?  The  total  is  not  at  all  like 
that  arrived  at  when  figuring  hams.  I  think  Sammy  was 
dumb  for  a  moment,  with  a  kind  of  horror,  until 
he  remembered  his  ten  thousand  dollars,  that  small 
remnant  of  the  once  fair  Tappan  fortune.  He  had  not 
thought  they  would  come  in  so  handy. 

"I  have  a  little  money,"  he  begins  modestly.  He 
means  he  has  millions. 

But  Mr.  Schroeder  shakes  his  head  quite  paternally. 
He  has  nothing  against  S.  Sydney  Tappan  if  only  he 
will  leave  his  daughter  alone. 

"You  will  need  it,  my  boy,"  he  says,  "if  you  are 
going  to  be  a  lawyer."  He  knows  it  is  but  ten  thousand 
dollars. 

He  recollects  his  duty  then.  Perhaps  a  footstep 
upstairs  has  reminded  him  that  he  has  a  wife  to  whom 
to  report  once  this  interview  is  over. 

"A  few  months,  and  you  will  have  forgotten  all  this 
nonsense,"  he  continues.  "Don't  tie  yourself  down  at 


54  THE  BALANCE 

your  age,  Sam.  Cut  out  this  calling  and  dancing 
business,  and  get  down  to  work.  There  is  nothing  finer 
in  the  world."  I  think  he  might  have  gone  on  ex- 
pounding the  joys  of  the  grocery  business  had  he  not 
checked  himself  and  turned  again  to  the  subject  in 
hand.  "Give  Carolyn  a  chance  to  see  some  of  the 
world.  See  some  of  it  yourself.  But  don't  tie  each 
other  down.  That  is  the  thing,  Sam.  A  great  mis- 
take!" Evidently  he  can  conceive  of  no  worse  fate 
than  this  mutually  weighted  condition. 

Somewhere,  somehow,  however,  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
feels,  there  is  a  flaw  in  these  remarks  of  the  grocer's; 
but  he  cannot  for  the  life  of  him  seem  to  find  it.  That 
the  heights  which  they  two,  by  their  mutual  bondage, 
would  keep  each  other  from  scaling  are  the  heights  of 
gilded  materialism — gilded  for  Mr.  Schroeder  by  the 
hand  of  his  wife — the  youth  of  Sammy  does  not  allow 
him  to  see.  He  can  only  sit  silent  while  Mr.  Schroeder 
blunders  on — to  blunder,  miraculously,  into  victory. 

"  It  isn't  possible  for  either  of  you  to  know  your  own 
mind  at  your  age,"  he  says.  "Especially  Carrie. 
Give  her  a  chance,  Sam,  even  if  it  costs  you  a  thought 
or  two.  You  are  man  enough  for  that,  I  am  sure." 

Man  enough!  Why  this  is  the  part  of  the  hero! 
Surely  if  there  is  anything  a  man  should  do,  our  Sammy 
is  the  one  to  do  it! 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  he  says,  slowly,  at  last. 
"  I  don't  want  to  tie  her  down  to  me." 

"It  means  tying  you  down,  too,"  Mr.  Schroeder  adds. 
"There  is  nothing  that  holds  a  young  fellow  down  more 
than  marrying  before  he  can  afford  it."  He  thinks 
this  may  be  an  added  inducement. 

But,  though  the  truth,  it  is  an  error  in  judgment. 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  will  sacrifice  himself  for  Carrie,  but 
not  to  gain  anything  for  himself.  That  would  not  be 
heroic  at  all. 

"I  am  only  thinking  of  Carrie,"  he  says  proudly. 
In  spite  of  his  heroics,  however,  his  eyes  fill  a  little 
with  tears.  He  is  feeling  very  much  alone  in  the  world 


THE  BALANCE  55 

at  this  moment.  He  does  not  see  exactly  how  he  will 
get  along  without  Carrie  now  that  he  has  found  her; 
but  if  it  is  the  thing  he  should  do,  why,  he  will  do  it. 
He  always  started  out  bravely,  did  our  Sammy. 

"Just  try  it  for  six  months,"  says  Mr.  Schroeder 
cheerfully.  It  is  the  same  tone  of  voice  in  which  he 
recommends  the  Schroeder  brand  of  good  coffee. 
"Leave  each  other  alone  for  that  length  of  time,  and 
see  if  I  am  not  right." 

Sammy's  heart  fails  him  just  a  little. 

"You  mean  not  see  her,"  he  asks,  "at  all?" 

"Certainly  not,"  says  Mr.  Schroeder.  The  thing  is 
nearly  settled  he  feels,  and  he  can  get  back  to  the  brick 
building  soon  now,  and  finish  those  hams.  If  the  trick 
is  not  turned  in  six  months,  it  will  be  very  simple  to 
insist  then  upon  a  longer  period.  Meanwhile,  every- 
thing will  be  arranged  satisfactorily.  These  family 
troubles  are  very  annoying. 

That  it  means  to  the  young  man  opposite  him  renun- 
ciation of  all  his  twenty-five  years  hold  dear,  does  not 
occur  to  him  for  a  single  instant.  It  is  a  peculiarity 
of  those  who  usually  ask  for  the  sacrifices  of  this  world 
that  they  fail  to  realize  that  there  can  be  any  other 
standard  of  value  than  their  own. 

The  real  fanatic  in  this  case,  however,  has  been  stand- 
ing, for  some  minutes  now,  in  the  old-fashioned  car- 
peted hallway  awaiting  the  departure  of  Sammy.  It  is 
time,  Mrs.  Schroeder  is  thinking,  that  the  thing  was 
finally  settled.  It  should  be  a  matter  of  very  few  words, 
with  quarter  neither  asked  for  nor  given.  It  is  their 
daughter  for  whom  they  are  fighting  with  this  boy. 
He  must  be  disposed  of  before  he  does  any  harm.  That 
there  can  be  any  distinction  between  Carrie's  happi- 
ness and  the  career  that  has  been  picked  out  for  her 
does  not  enter  her  mind.  There  was  never  room  for  a 
doubt,  no  matter  how  tiny,  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Schroeder. 

"My  goodness,"  she  says  to  her  daughter,  "what  on 
earth  do  you  suppose  your  father  can  be  finding  to  say 
to  him  all  this  time?" 


56  THE  BALANCE 

What  can  there  be  to  discuss?  It  is  why,  when  ten 
minutes  have  passed  and  no  rejected  suitor  has  yet 
come  forth  from  the  den,  that  she  can  control  herself 
no  longer.  Self-control  was  not  one  of  Mrs.  Schroeder's 
talents. 

"I  will  settle  him  myself,"  she  says  then.  She  is 
brave  because  she  knows  the  enemy  is  weak.  There  are 
no  Schroeder  millions  behind  him. 

It  is  a  moment  later  that  she  appears  in  irresistible 
force  in  the  doorway,  just  as  our  Sammy  has  finished 
saying,  bravely,  that  if  it  is  the  right  thing  to  do  he 
will  do  it. 

"You  are  not  wanted  here,  Sam  Tappan,"  she  says 
angrily.  "If  you  have  any  sense  you  won't  wait  for 
Mr.  Schroeder  to  tell  you  so.  There  is  the  door!" 

The  door!  I  think  it  was  a  full  moment  before  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  realized  that  Mrs.  Schroeder  was 
actually  showing  him  the  door.  It  was  odd  how  it 
changed  his  whole  conception  of  the  part  he  should 
play  then.  He  would  not  have  given  up  Carrie  after 
that  remark  though  a  world  had  stepped  in  between. 
He  was  a  hero,  who  had  been  hurled  back  by  a  dragon — 
not  a  knight  errant  sacrificing  himself  for  his  lady. 

That  proud  blood  of  his  Dutch  ancestors  sprang  up 
and  coloured  his  cheeks.  And  the  hero  spoke. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice  from 
which  he  tried  hard  to  keep  out  his  anger.  "I  did  not 
understand.  I  see  now  that  we  are  mutually  unpopu- 
lar." 

I  think  it  was  the  implied  slight  on  the  family  that 
stirred  Mr.  Schroeder  so.  He  saw  all  those  Schroeder 
stores  stretching  before  him  for  blocks.  What  unheard- 
of  impudence.  The  Schroeder  family  unpopular  with 
anybody! 

"That  will  do,  young  man,"  he  said  angrily.  "The 
Schroeders  don't  care  for  you."  I  think  he  was  lost 
in  horror  at  the  Use  majeste  of  the  young  man's  re- 
marks. 

It  was  his  wife  who  went  on. 


THE  BALANCE  57 

"Nor  any  one  who  can't  even  support  themselves," 
she  added.  "I  don't  want  any  penniless  fools  around 
here!" 

I  must  give  her  the  credit,  at  least,  of  always  speaking 
her  mind.  People  always  knew  just  where  they  stood 
with  Mrs.  Schroeder. 

Sammy,  however,  has  his  hat  in  his  hand  now,  as  he 
stands  on  the  doorstep,  and  looks  out  on  the  street. 
What  a  sight  for  the  past  generation!  A  Tappan  re- 
fused at  the  hands  of  the  Schroeders!  Verily,  times 
have  changed. 

"Money  isn't  everything,"  he  says,  then,  with  more 
wisdom  than  he  knows.  "That  can  be  gotten." 

And  he  has  gone  down  the  elm-shaded  Avenue  with 
this  slur  upon  the  enormous  Schroeder  achievements 
before  any  answer  is  forthcoming,  in  his  mind  a  total 
forgetfulness  that  Carrie  is  still  waiting  in  the  drawing- 
room  to  know  the  result. 

Money,  he  is  thinking;  so  that  is  the  real  requirement 
in  this  world.  Money!  How  has  it  happened  in  all 
the  Tappan  training  that  this  subject  has  been  so  neg- 
lected? Money!  Do  lawyers  ever  make  very  much 
money,  he  wonders?  It  is  plain  that  old  Mr.  Dabney 
has  never  made  any.  If  Mr.  Schroeder  has  made  so 
much,  however,  it  ought  to  be  easy.  He  does  not  ap- 
pear to  be  a  colossus;  and  he  has  made  it  in  business. 
In  business. 

Well,  we  can  now  introduce  Mr.  Pike.  Yes,  you 
may  look  up,  now,  from  that  pile  of  bills  payable,  Mr. 
Pike,  and  gaze  on  your  "New  Capital  Required  to 
Expand  a  Large  and  Growing  Business,"  as  he  turns 
into  the  Preston  Block  and  mounts  the  stairs  to  Mr. 
Dabney's  office.  The  Democrat  Herald  printed  your 
very  flattering  letter  in  full — such  satisfied  advertisers 
do  not  write  in  every  day — but  I  think  at  least  half  of 
the  credit  should  have  gone  to  the  Schroeders. 

The  law  is  not  the  only  way  of  amassing  a  fortune 
when  one  already  possesses  ten  thousand  dollars. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH  MR.  PIKE  MAKES  His  APPEARANCE  ONLY 
IN  ORDER  TO  DISAPPEAR  FROM  VIEW 

You  who  have  read  the  biography  do  not  recall 
the  name  of  Pike.  It  is  because  he  is  mentioned  as  an 
unsuccessful  business  venture  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
and  not  by  name.  He  was  the  gentleman  whom  Fate 
allotted  to  our  Sammy  as  pilot  through  the  commercial 
maelstrom — a  pilot,  alas!  who,  under  the  pretense  of 
putting  in  plumbing,  steered  the  ten  thousand  dollars 
straight  on  the  rocks. 

That  Mr.  Pike  had  been  installing  plumbing  in  Mel- 
chester  for  some  twenty  years  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
an  example  of  human  credulity  with  very  few  parallels. 
He  had  tended  furnace  once,  in  time  gone  by,  for  one  of 
Mr.  Schroeder's  partners  and  in  this  way  obtained  a 
recommendation  when  things  mechanical  were  under 
discussion.  And  it  was  thus  that  the  fable  of  his  abil- 
ity had  had  origin.  But  that  he  had  lasted  these 
twenty  years  as  a  contracting  plumber  was  due  wholly 
to  the  favouring  smile  of  chance.  His  guesses  had  av- 
eraged nearly  as  well  as  correctly  figured  estimates 
might  have.  There  is  to  be  added  the  fact,  too,  that 
when  plumbing  which  he  had  installed  required  repair- 
ing, he  had  usually  been  the  man  who  was  called  in 
for  the  job.  So  that  for  a  number  of  years  he 
had  succeeded  in  burying  again  most  of  his  own  mis- 
takes. 

His  guesses  during  the  last  few  years,  however,  had 
been  particularly  atrocious.  He  seemed  to  guess  wrong 
not  only  on  the  jobs,  but  also  on  the  repairs!  And  ex- 
cept for  a  few  of  the  older  generation  the  fashion  of 

58 


THE  BALANCE  59 

simply  calling  in  Pike  the  plumber  to  fix  the  thing  up 
appeared  to  have  gone  out  of  date. 

Not  until  the  pile  of  bills  payable  had  risen  to  such 
an  alarming  height  that  the  fact  was  evident  to  even 
his  foggy  mentality,  however — not  until  then  had  he 
conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  expanding  the  business! 
This  business  which  grew  so  rapidly  that  the  bills  piled 
in  faster  than  he  could  collect  money  wherewith  to  pay 
them!  Forthwith  the  advertisement  in  the  Democrat 
Herald. 

To  Sammy  it  came  as  a  magnificent  chance.  A 
business  which  consisted  simply  of  buying  homely 
earthenware  articles  and  installing  them  at  a  handsome 
profit  over  the  cost  appeared  to  his  ready  gaze  as  the 
acme  of  safety — safety,  somehow,  being  considered  the 
hand  maiden  of  dullness.  Surely  no  business  could 
be  duller  than  installing  plumbing — hence  its  surpass- 
ing safety.  No  adventurer  of  high  finance  he  felt  sure 
would  ever  be  attracted  by  the  romance  of  plumbing. 
He  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Pike  was  an  adventurer  on 
uncharted  seas  without  sextant  or  compass — and 
supremely  unaware  of  the  fact. 

It  is  almost  needless  to  state  that  it  was  the  ten 
thousand  dollars  which  secured  for  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
the  honour  of  accompanying  him  on  the  voyage.  Posi- 
tions as  partner  in  growing  businesses  do  not  drop  from 
the  clouds.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for  Mr.  Pike  to 
have  secured  a  worse  addition  to  his  crew  than  Sammy, 
however.  To  see  Sammy  was  to  know  instinctively 
that  he  did  not  understand  in  the  least  about  plumbing 
— just  as  to  view  Mr.  Pike  without  being  aware  of  his 
inner  workings  convinced  the  most  hardened  that  here 
at  last  was  a  plumber.  Appearances  count  for  a  great 
deal  in  this  world  of  ours.  The  precarious  state  of 
Martin  Pike,  Incorporated,  Plumbers,  was  not,  there- 
fore, greatly  relieved  by  the  entrance  of  our  Sammy 
upon  the  scene. 

He  sat  in  the  office  upon  a  stool  exceedingly  high  for 
even  his  long  legs,  and  answered  the  telephone  in  the 


60  THE  BALANCE 

long  hot  days  of  summer;  figuring  in  even  hazier  man- 
ner than  his  experienced  partner  on  the  profits  to  be 
shared  in  the  first  six  months.  It  always  figured  out 
to  a  glorious  future.  So  much  plumbing  installed  at 
so  much  profit — the  profit  seemed  huge — resulted  in 
such  and  such  an  income  for  him!  Neither  he  nor 
Carrie  ever  doubted  that  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  time 
before  they  would  show  Mr.  Schroeder  how  simple 
the  whole  thing  was. 

They  were  not  aware  then,  either  of  them,  of  that 
outside  world  of  Melchester.  They  had  never  heard 
of  a  street  named  Hague,  nor  of  a  house  upon  it  called 
the  Settlement  House — had  never  heard  the  name  of 
John  Rouse,  that  iron  moulder  with  the  thick  brick- 
red  hair  who  was  even  then  turning  over  in  his  burning 
brain  the  questions  from  which  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
inspiration  was  to  emerge.  Only  in  Carrie,  in  that 
passionate  desire  of  hers  to  know  the  truth,  the  reason 
why  of  the  things  of  this  world,  was  there  the  first  in- 
dication of  the  future. 

Even  to  her,  however,  Washington  Avenue  and  its 
side  streets  with  the  beautiful  residences  and  lawns 
that  gradually  seemed  to  grow  more  ambitious  until  at 
last  as  country  estates  they  lay  proudly  in  the  sunlight 
along  the  Country  Club  road — these  were  Melchester  still 
to  Carrie.  There  was  no  one  else  worth  knowing  save 
those  who  came  forth  in  automobiles  from  flowered  gates. 

There  were  other  people  of  course — there  must  be, 
the  crowds  on  Main  Street  of  a  Saturday  night  were  so 
enormous.  But  somehow  they  did  not  seem  to  count. 
They  were  in  the  nature  of  a  background,  a  huge  chorus 
in  front  of  which  the  favoured  few  played  the  drama 
of  life  to  the  proper  accompaniment  and  setting.  She 
was  only  just  dimly  conscious  that  there  was  any  real 
relation  between  the  two,  a  responsibility  to  certain 
intangible  ideals  of  a  common  humanity — expressed 
for  her  perhaps  in  Miss  Strong,  the  nurse  her  charity 
committee  supported  for  visiting  the  poor.  Some- 
where, dimly,  there  must  be  a  duty  back  of  it  all. 


THE  BALANCE  61 

They  all  talked  of  it  vaguely, .those  girls  in  that  Beecher 
Conference  which  she  had  joined  at  her  mother's  sug- 
gestion; talked  and  listened  to  meaningless  reports  and 
consumed  pleasant  quantities  of  tea  and  little  cakes  in 
comfortable  libraries;  and  secured  sufficient  funds  to 
keep  their  Miss  Strong  going,  and  their  own  minds 
happy  with  the  thought  of  accomplishment  and  duty 
done. 

A  very  good  thing  to  belong  to,  Mrs.  Schroeder  would 
have  told  you,  with  many  of  the  very  best  younger 
society  upon  its  roster.  Whence  it  really  sprang,  and 
why,  or  when,  she  could  not  have  told  you  at  all.  It 
was  always  enough  for  her  that  it  was  the  thing  to  do, 
to  join,  even  though  Mr.  Schroeder  had  to  make  a  little 
heavier  contribution  than  would  otherwise  have  been 
the  case.  All  the  canal  boat  driver's  descendants 
belonged.  There  could  have  been  no  better  reason 
for  the  thing's  existence. 

Just  what  would  be  finally  accomplished  I  am  sure 
none  of  the  members  ever  knew.  Only  three  classes  in 
Melchester  were  sure  of  that:  those  older  members  who 
had  resigned  a  decade  ago;  the  proletariat  upon  whom 
they  had  practised  so  assiduously  in  vain;  and  the 
patient  business  men  who  had  contributed  so  cheer- 
fully because  it  could  not  hurt  things  as  they  were 
and  would  perhaps  advance  their  families  on  the  road 
to  social  preferment  and  possibly  to  Heaven,  too. 

It  was  only  occasionally  that  a  spark  of  the  fire  called 
divine,  slumbering  in  some  girlish  breast,  set  ofF  a  fuse 
amidst  the  dangerous  social  explosive  with  which  they 
dealt  so  lightly,  and  the  futility  of  the  business  stood 
revealed  before  the  light  of  real  purpose  and  serious 
endeavour.  Such  explosions  were  usually  frowned  upon 
as  being  in  poor  taste,  however.  There  was  plenty 
enough  work  for  all  in  merely  understanding  the  Bible 
as  it  was  understood  a  number  of  centuries  ago. 
Present-day  application  could  be  safely  left  to  the 
churches  and  the  smiling  clergymen  who  occasionally 
addressed  the  Conference.  Meanwhile  there  was  the 


62  THE  BALANCE 

district  nurse  to  fall  back  upon  if  the  gates  of  Heaven 
needed  any  extra  forcing. 

That  Carrie  could  ever  become  seriously  interested  in 
such  things  was  perhaps  the  last  thing  in  her  mother's 
mind  that  first  year  of  her  daughter's  membership. 
The  only  disturbing  thing  about  it  all  to  Mrs.  Schroeder 
then  was  the  fact  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  still  called 
for  Carrie  and  took  her  home  from  the  meetings — 
meetings  from  which  he  most  certainly  should  have 
been  excluded.  Had  she  been  able  to  overhear  any  of 
those  conversations  as  they  walked  home  through  the 
dusk  she  would  have  blown  up  the  entire  Conference 
without  mercy. 

The  fuse  was  sputtering  a  little  in  Carrie. 

"I  think  I  shall  take  a  class  of  girls  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A. 
this  winter,  Sammy,"  she  said  earnestly.  "I  think  I 
have  gotten  to  the  point  where  I  really  want  to  do 
something  instead  of  just  pretending.  It's  a  place  to 
start  from  anyway ! " 

"Fine!"  Sammy  replied  lightly.  "I  can  come  and 
call  for  you  there  evenings,  too!"  Manlike,  he  saw 
only  his  own  pleasure — the  girls  were  quite  lost  sight 
of.  "I  don't  see,  though,  what  you  know  that  you  can 
teach  them,"  he  added  thoughtfully.  "Sewing?" 

No,  Carrie  could  not  sew  well  at  all. 

"Or  cooking?" 

Heavens,  no!     Not  Mrs.  Schroeder's  daughter. 

"I  don't  know  much  really,  do  I?"  she  cried  in  dis- 
may then. 

But  it  was  not  the  fashion  for  young  ladies  of  the  best 
society  to  know  much,  Carrie,  so  you  were  not  alone! 

"Oh,  you  can  learn,"  Sammy  said  sagely.  "I 
didn't  know  much  about  plumbing  either  when  I 
started!" 

Great  heavens!  Had  six  months  of  tutelage  from 
Mr.  Pike  made  of  him  a  master  plumber? 

"I  will  learn,"  cried  Carrie  determinedly. 

It  was  dancing  that  she  taught  them  finally,  those 
factory  girls  who  whispered  among  themselves  on  the 


THE  BALANCE  63 

chairs  around  the  room  and  said  to  one  another  when 
Carrie  came  in,  "There  she  is,  Carolyn  Schroeder!" 
It  was  the  closest  to  the  society  column  they  could  come. 
Carrie  always  had  a  tiny  heartache  when  she  heard  it. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  her  infinite  pity. 

.It  did  not  occur  to  either  Carrie  or  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
that  winter,  however,  that  the  foundations  of  their  own 
existence  might  be  in  any  danger  of  slipping.  The 
amount  of  plumbing  that  Martin  Pike,  Inc.,  was  doing 
seemed  truly  stupendous  to  the  new  partner.  That 
the  bills  also  were  not  lolling  by  the  wayside  Sammy  was 
not  aware.  They  came  in  to  be  sure,  but  so  far  the 
ten  thousand  dollars  had  paid  them  magnificently. 
That  the  splendid  guesses  of  the  senior  member  were 
weirder  than  ever  and  the  credulity  of  Melchester 
nearer  to  the  breaking  point  did  not  appear  upon  the 
surface.  Financial  reports  had  assured  Sammy  that 
two-thirds  of  the  failures  in  business  came  in  the  first 
year  and  from  lack  of  sufficient  capital.  The  firm  of 
Pike  had  been  going  some  twenty  years.  In  fact,  their 
own  plumbing  on  Hawthorne  Street  had  been  put  in — 
and  repaired  very  regularly — by  this  very  same  firm! 
Add  to  this  the  ten  thousand  dollars  and  there  surely 
remained  very  little  about  which  to  worry!  It  was 
thus  that  he  talked  to  Carrie.  .  .  . 

Well,  the  biography,  if  you  remember  at  all,  calls  it, 
casually,  his  first  failure.  It  is  an  odd  thing,  neverthe- 
less, that  without  it  he  might  never  have  been  the  sub- 
ject of  a  biography  at  all.  It  was  the  first  thing  in  S. 
Sydney  Tappan's  life  that  he  ever  finished.  That  he 
should  have  chosen  a  plumbing  business  tottering  to  its 
grave  for  his  first  attempt  at  finishing  the  thing  he  had 
begun  was  a  supreme  irony  which  he  never  appreciated. 
Yet  that  he  did  finish  it  is  to  his  everlasting  credit. 
It  was  the  first  thing  our  Sammy  stuck  to  grimly  until 
the  bitter  end.  I  wonder  would  we  be  very  far  wrong  if 
we  called  it  his  first  success  ? 

It  was  late  in  March  that  the  ship  of  Pike,  Inc.,  dis- 
appeared with  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  ten  thousand  dol- 


64  THE  BALANCE 

lars  on  board.  Mrs.  Schroeder  saw  the  notice  of  the 
bankruptcy  in  the  evening  paper  just  before  that  seven 
o'clock  dinner.  She  tossed  it  across  to  her  husband. 

"Well,"  she  said  grimly,  "I  guess  that's  the  end  of 
him!"  She  had  been  justified  after  all — though  she 
had  never  entertained  any  doubt  on  that  point,  of 
course.  She  did  not  have  doubts. 

"The  end  of  who?"  her  husband  inquired.  Alas! 
business  had  been  pressing  of  late  and  Mr.  Schroeder 
had  forgotten  that  the  firm  of  Pike  was  being  conducted 
as  a  lesson  to  him  the  past  year. 

"That  Tappan  boy,"  his  wife  replied.  "That 
ought  to  finish  him!"  Certainly  Carrie  would  not 
propose  to  marry  a  pauper! 

It  is  a  question,  however,  whether  Mr.  Schroeder 
ever  got  past  the  market  quotations  in  time  to  look  at 
the  item.  He  remembered  the  Tappan  boy  only  as  a 
frightful  example  of  the  ignorance  and  impudence  of 
the  new  generation.  Boys  certainly  had  not  been  like 
that  when  he  was  young.  They  had  had  respect. 
He  felt  the  need  of  agreeing  with  his  wife,  nevertheless. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said  vaguely,  "I  don't  think  he 
will  bother  again.  Or  Carrie  either.  It  ought  to  be  a 
lesson." 

His  wife  was  already  sharpening  her  axe. 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  she  will  say  to  this!"  she  said 
vindictively.  She  always  enjoyed  a  victory  to  the 
full.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  her  that  Carrie  had 
most  likely  known  for  many  heart-breaking  weeks  of 
the  approaching  failure  of  Pike,  Inc.  An  engagement 
was  impossible  now!  That  was  her  only  thought. 
Things  were  always  social  to  her,  never  spiritual.  That 
engagement  could  be  merely  a  state  of  mind  would 
probably  have  called  forth  from  Mrs.  Schroeder  the 
remark  that  the  proper  name  for  such  a  state  was  in- 
sanity. 

She  stood  over  her  husband  for  a  moment,  then,  with 
the  closest  approach  to  a  sigh  that  one  could  imagine 
from  her : 


THE  BALANCE  65 

"It  will  be  social  work,  I  suppose,  now,"  she  said. 
"She's  always  got  some  queer  idea  about  her.  Why 
the  devil  she  can't  be  like  any  other  decent  ordinary 
person  I  don't  know!" 

Which  only  meant  after  all,  if  it  meant  anything, 
that  Carrie  could  not  be  like  Mrs.  Schroeder.  It  was 
why  she  could  not  understand  the  calmness  with  which 
her  daughter  greeted  the  news  of  the  failure  at  dinner 
that  night. 

"I  would  have  told  you  sooner,  myself,"  Carrie  said 
calmly,  "if  I  had  thought  you  were  interested  in  know- 
ing." 

It  was  one  of  the  most  silent  dinners  the  Schroeders 
ever  had.  For  some  unknown  reason  Mrs.  Schroeder 
did  not  bring  out  her  axe.  It  might  have  been  those 
unshed  tears  in  Carrie's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  WHICH  THE  PATH  OF  LIFE  BEGINS  TO  FORK,  AND 
CARRIE  AND   SAMMY  PART  COMPANY  FOR  A  WHILE 

IT  WAS  not  long  before  those  forebodings  of  Mrs. 
Schroeder's  bade  fair  to  be  realized. 

"Father,"  said  Carrie  at  breakfast  several  weeks 
later,  "what  would  you  think  if  I  went  into  real  social 
work?" 

"Social  work,  eh?"  her  father  repeated  vaguely. 
Social  work!  He  always  repeated  thus,  so  as  to  gain 
time  in  which  to  think.  Social  work?  He  has  a  dim 
glimpse  of  meetings  and  settlement  houses  and  things — 
well,  things  like  that.  "Why  very  nice,  my  dear,"  he 
says  finally.  He  knows  that  Mr.  Hopkinson  is  always 
contributing  some  of  the  firm's  money  to  social  work, 
and  most  of  the  society  leaders  seem  to  be  interested 
in  one  way  or  another.  This  is  a  matter  which  belongs 
more  in  Mrs.  Schroeder's  province.  He  looks  again  at 
the  editorial  he  has  been  reading. 

"What  would  you  do?"  he  asks,  to  show  a  pretence 
of  interest.  The  editorial  is  on  the  insatiability  of  la- 
bour unions,  a  matter  of  interest  to  him  just  now,  when 
the  clerks  in  the  store  are  showing  a  disposition  to  rebel 
against  the  benevolent  ideas  of  the  owners  by  taking 
the  direction  of  their  personal  affairs  into  their  own 
hands. 

"I  don't  know,"  answers  his  daughter  slowly.  "I 
would  like  to  do  kindergarten  work  in  the  settlement. 
I  like  little  children."  This  almost  shyly,  though  the 
man  is  her  father.  "But  it  seems  as  if  there  must  be 
other  things  that  are  more  useful  than  that — such  as 
being  a  nurse." 


THE  BALANCE  67 

Mr.  Schroeder  puts  down  his  paper  very  quickly. 

"A  nurse!"  he  says  sharply.  "Nonsense!  That 
requires  real  work,  and  knowledge.  Unpleasant  work, 
too.  That  isn't  social  work.  That  is  a  profession." 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  should  like  it,"  says  Carrie 
quietly.  "I  would  feel  then  that  I  knew  something, 
was  doing  something  in  the  world." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  what  you  are  doing,  I 
should  like  to  know?"  he  asks.  "You  have  everything 
you  want,  haven't  you?" 

"Everything,"  she  answers  seriously,  "except  some- 
thing to  do." 

His  laughter  was  too  loud  to  be  mere  amusement. 
I  think  it  contained  just  the  hint  of  a  sneer — or  was  it  a 
sense  of  superiority  coming  out  ?  This  girl  before  him 
cannot  know  much  of  the  world. 

"A  couple  of  days  in  the  store  would  cure  you  of  those 
ideas,"  he  says  shortly.  "A  couple  of  days  on  your 
feet,  from  eight-thirty  till  six!"  He  laughs  again, 
although  this  time  with  a  slight  sense  of  forcing  his 
humour.  There  is  a  curious  look  of  purpose  and  de- 
termination in  those  eyes  across  the  table.  "Take  my 
advice,  my  dear,  and  don't  worry  about  such  things. 
You  don't  understand  them." 

His  children  usually  appear  to  Mr.  Schroeder  in  the 
light  of  genial  incompetents,  of  whom,  for  some  reason, 
he  is  inordinately  proud — particularly  the  eldest 
daughter,  with  her  indefinable  air  of  breeding.  Just 
where  she  has  come  by  this  air  it  is  hard  to  explain. 
To  Mr.  Schroeder,  however,  she  seems  to  shed  a  little 
added  glory  on  the  family,  in  spite  of  her  ideas — ideas 
for  which  there  seems  to  be  no  explanation. 

"That  is  why  I  should  like  to  be  a  nurse,"  she  says, 
as  she  rises  from  the  table.  "I  want  to  understand, 
if  I  can." 

This  morning  is  the  first  of  many  for  Mr.  Schroeder 
in  which  the  unrest  of  his  daughter  is  finally  to  stir  in 
him  a  sense  of  impending  doom.  When  one  has  built, 
as  Mr.  Schroeder,  an  edifice  of  success  on  a  social  basis 


68  THE  BALANCE 

already  made  to  hand,  with  its  plan  and  justice  unques- 
tioned, nothing  is  more  disruptive  of  one's  peace  of 
mind  than  simple  questions.  Perhaps  the  truism  that 
nothing  is  ever  perfect,  is  the  only  refuge  possible  for 
him  who  thinks.  To  the  Mr.  Schroeders  of  the  world, 
however,  it  seems  to  be  considered  a  duty  to  explain 
everything,  enthusiastically,  as  the  very  best  brand 
anywhere  obtainable.  I  never  have  been  able  to  with- 
hold my  pity  for  him  during  those  mornings  when  a 
heartless  fate  left  him  opposite  his  inquiring  daughter. 
Asking  questions  is  better  than  many  batteries  of  big 
guns,  and  Mr.  Schroeder  lay  out  in  the  open. 

It  was  on  those  mornings  when  Carrie  brought  up  the 
question  of  what  her  father  thought  a  girl  should  do 
with  her  life,  that  he  suffered  the  greatest  casualties. 

"But  I  cannot  go  on  attending  parties  all  my  life," 
she  would  say,  on  these  occasions.  "Bridge,  and  danc- 
ing, and  automobiling  cannot  last  forever,  father. 
Don't  you  see?" 

Her  father  was  badly  hampered  in  those  engage- 
ments, because  the  obvious  answer  was  forbidden  to 
him  by  his  wife.  Marriage  could  not  be  held  out  to 
Carrie  as  a  goal  with  this  Tappan  affair  still  in  her 
mind.  It  is  just  as  well  not  to  bring  up  the  subject 
again  they  have  decided.  Mr.  Schroeder  has  not 
realized  quite  so  keenly  before,  however,  that  when 
marriage  is  eliminated  from  the  list  of  his  defenses,  he 
is  helpless.  Confound  it,  why  do  girls  have  minds  any- 
how? Things  would  be  much  better  all  around  if  they 
had  none  at  all — a  belief  he  has  privately  held  since 
early  in  his  married  life  with  Mrs.  Schroeder.  It  is 
very  plain  that  all  they  can  do  is  to  get  married!  To 
expect  a  solution  when  the  great  mystery  of  marriage 
has  been  eliminated  is  ridiculous! 

He  is  glad,  though,  that  his  wife  is  not  an  early  riser. 
He  shudders  to  think  that  once  she  considers  the  time 
propitious  to  urge  on  their  daughter  a  good  marriage, 
the  whole  question  will  have  to  be  threshed  out  thor- 
oughly again.  He  wonders,  vaguely,  if  this  is  why  the 


THE  BALANCE  69 

suffragettes  wish  to  vote.  Perhaps  they  wish  to  vote 
themselves  careers. 

There  is  but  one  career  to  his  wife,  and  he  knows 
it — the  noble  one  of  climbing  in  society.  This  is 
the  mainspring  which  Carrie  seems,  somehow,  to 
have  mislaid;  substituting  for  it  questions  about  wages 
in  department  stores  and  a  vast  confusion  of  unintel- 
ligible aspirations  to  which  there  seems  to  be  no  answer. 
It  is  a  poor  exchange  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  Mr. 
Schroeder.  Women  should,  at  least,  be  ornamental, 
he  thinks,  if  they  cannot  be  useful  like  their  grand- 
mothers were  before  them.  It  is  true  for  all  classes. 
He  has  noticed  it  before  in  the  groceries.  The  more 
education  that  people  have,  the  more  dissatisfied  they 
seem.  The  working  people  now!  they  are  beginning 
to  know  too  much  to  work!  And  his  daughter  has 
been  educated  until  she  is  a  menace  to  her  own  father's 
peace  of  mind.  He  can  discharge  clerks  in  the  store 
when  they  get  above  their  position,  of  course;  but  one 
cannot  discharge  one's  own  daughter.  Education  is  a 
bitter  thing. 

And  Mr.  Schroeder  leaves  the  house.  His  sense  of 
impending  doom  is  stirred,  but  that  is  all.  After  all,  wo- 
men are  another  sex. 

He  does  not  realize  that  when  the  seed  of  revolution 
flowers  finally  in  woman,  the  end  is  near  at  hand.  In 
his  daughter's  mind  there  are  the  first  few  gropings 
after  justice  which  will  finally  result  in  her  aligning  her- 
self in  that  new  crusade  whose  end  humanity  cannot 
see  as  yet,  but  which  is  destined  to  raze  those  ideas  of 
Mr.  Schroeder's  in  its  first  assault  upon  the  barricades. 

Meanwhile,  the  bottom  has  fallen  from  Si,  Sydney 
Tappan's  world.  The  firm  of  Pike,  Incorporated, 
Plumbers,  has  dwindled  to  two  dusty  windows,  and 
a  sign  for  rent;  while  the  accounts  are  being  wrestled 
with  by  cheery  lawyers  for  whom  the  failures  of  the 
world  spell  livelihood.  The  ten  thousand  dollars,  so 
gayly  risked,  have  taken  wings,  and  vanished  from  our 
Sammy's  gaze. 


70  THE  BALANCE 

In  his  room  on  George  Street  he  is  sitting  this  after- 
noon, because  he  cannot  muster  up  enough  courage  to 
go  out.  In  the  eyes  of  men,  he  thinks,  S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan  is  branded  with  the  stigma  of  failure.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  his  belief  in  himself  is  shaken  just  a 
little.  To  fail  at  twenty-five  is  comparable,  indeed, 
only  to  a  social  cataclysm  from  which  the  world  can 
never  rise  again.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  age  translating 
itself  into  terms  of  youth  that  keeps  our  Sammy  lying 
on  the  couch  there  in  the  sunlight,  disgraced  beyond 
recall,  disappearance  his  only  hope — the  spirit  called 
success,  which  he  feels  staring  at  him,  through  the  win- 
dows, with  disapproving  eyes.  He  is  a  failure,  and 
must  go.  Just  where,  he  does  not  know  nor  care. 
The  soul's  bitterness  has  little  sense  of  proportion  when 
the  mind  is  young. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  is  doing  some  thinking  this  after- 
noon, however,  which  will  not  harm  him.  He  is  won- 
dering just  where  all  those  friends  of  a  year  ago  are  now. 
Those  friends  of  Williams,  of  the  Country  Club,  of 
those  dances  and  parties  which  meant  so  much  to  him 
when  they  took  place.  Unconsciously  now,  he  sees, 
his  environment  has  been  changing,  although  he  has 
not  left  this  city  of  his  youth  at  all.  Carrie  seems 
to  him  to  be  almost  the  only  landmark  left  of  all  that 
was  once  his  world.  With  a  little  wonder,  he  realizes 
now  he  has  not  seen  Asa  in  months.  Asa!  At  the 
word,  his  childhood  rushes  back  upon  him,  and  a  sharp 
pain  strikes  him  in  the  heart.  The  walls  have  faded, 
and  he  sees  instead  the  room  in  college  where  he  sits 
composing  a  last  letter  to  the  mother  who  already  lies 
so  quietly  in  the  big  front  room  upstairs  on  Hawthorne 
Street.  Hawthorne  Street!  All  the  song  of  summer 
days,  long  quiet  afternoons,  and  sunny  rooms!  Our 
Sammy  chokes  a  little  in  his  barren  room  on  George 
Street.  He  is  twenty-five  and  a  man  this  afternoon, 
but  he  is  thinking  of  his  mother. 

Let  us  look  away  and  wait  patiently  outside  until  he 
comes  down  the  steps  an  hour  later,  and  turns  quickly 


THE  BALANCE  71 

to  the  left.  I  think  there  is  a  tiny,  new  look  around 
his  mouth,  a  look  of  patience.  It  is  to  become  more 
noticeable  soon,  more  pronounced,  until  finally  his 
picture  is  not  recognizable  without  it.  He  is  thinking 
of  Carrie.  He  may  be  a  failure,  but  there  is  fight  in 
him  yet,  if  he  but  knew  it. 

His  steps,  however,  are  not  turned  in  the  direction  of 
Washington  Avenue.  He  crosses  George  Street,  bound 
the  other  way;  bound,  as  we  shall  see  in  a  few  moments, 
toward  that  little  Dutch  Reformed  Church  far  down  on 
Ross  Street,  where  a  youngish  man  with  tangled  yellow 
hair,  like  a  thatch  upon  his  head,  sits  in  the  choir  room 
before  an  old  grand  piano;  the  dull  light  of  the  late 
winter  afternoon  struggling  through  the  cloudy  panes, 
falling  on  the  sheets  of  half-filled  manuscript,  on  the 
score  of  Pelleas  et  Melisande  lying  open  on  the  table, 
on  the  half-closed  blue  eyes  of  its  peruser,  who  reads 
it  as  a  book.  He  is  Ricorton,  organist  and  choir  mas- 
ter of  this  Dutch  Reformed  Church,  a  kindred  spirit. 
Sammy  cannot  remember,  now,  where  he  first 'met  this 
sympathetic  musician.  He  knows  only  that  they  think 
alike  and  find  mutual  inspiration  in  the  exercise  of  those 
talents  of  which  the  world  seems  to  have  so  little 
understanding.  It  is  perhaps  no  more  than  natural 
that  they  should  have  drifted  into  writing  an  ambitious 
comic  opera  together. 

Ricorton  does  not  rise  at  the  sound  of  footsteps  on 
the  vestibule's  marble  floor,  but  calls  out  without  look- 
ing up : 

"Hullo,  Tappy,  how  go  the  bills ?;* 

Our  Sammy  smiles  ruefully  as  he  sits  down. 

"The  firm  of  Pike  is  no  more,  Ric  Vale!  " 

He  stares  at  the  music  while  Ricorton  leans  back  and 
fills  his  pipe. 

"Well,  it's  rough,  Tappy,';  he  says  softly.  "I 
can  appreciate  it."  He  stretches  a  little.  "I've  al- 
ways been  a  failure,  myself — and  I'm  thirty-five." 

"You  know  something,"  answers  Sammy.  "I 
don't." 


72  THE  BALANCE 

"Music!"  says  Ricorton  scornfully.  "Music!"  He 
looks  at  the  printed  page  over  which  Debussy  toiled. 
"There  is  no  money  in  music,  unless  you  write  junk." 

"You  have  a  job,  though,"  says  Sammy  lifelessly. 

"Yes,"  replies  Ricorton.  "I  have  a  job  where  I 
yell  at  twenty  chorus  boys  so  many  times  a  week,  for  a 
pittance;  put  on  stuff  that  no  one  in  the  pews  appre- 
ciates, and  earn  my  salary  by  taking  orders  from  a 
damn  fool  "musical  committee.  A  job — you  said 
it!" 

He  puffs  at  his  pipe,  in  the  darkening  silence.  The 
twilight  hides  from  view  the  lines  around  the  mouth, 
the  wrinkles  in  the  forehead. 

"They  don't  want  a  musician  in  this  church.  They 
want  a  social  mountebank — -a  blonde  yap,  with  pretty 
words,  who  will  please  the  leading  families  and  never 
drink  a  glass  of  beer.  Down  with  'em  all,  Tappy!  I 
wish  I  were  out  of  it,  now." 

Sammy  pulls  out  some  sheets  of  paper. 

"I  have  the  next  song,  Ric,"  he  says.  "It's  awful, 
it's  sickening — but  it's  what  they  want — and  it's  not 
plumbing!" 

"Noble  Tappy!"  says  Ric,  as  he  reads  it,  and  repeats 
the  words  of  the  chorus.  "How  you  must  have  suf- 
fered! Well,  the  music  shall  be  equally  sickening,  if 
I  can  make  it  so." 

"Let  'em  die  in  their  seats!"  says  Sammy  brutally. 
"We  don't  care  as  long  as  they'll  come  and  listen,  at 
two  dollars  each." 

Ricorton,  however,  seems  to  have  turned  serious  of 
a  sudden. 

"Well,  Tappy,"  he  says  seriously,  "perhaps  we  are 
fools.  But  we  will  finish  the  thing  and  see  what  it  is 
worth,  anyhow.  We've  nothing  to  lose.  My  time  is 
up  next  month  anyway;  and  Sternenberg's  letters 
about  a  new  job  aren't  very  encouraging.  There  is 
just  about  one  more  fling  left  in  me." 

Sternenberg  is  his  agent  in  New  York.  I  do  not 
think,  however,  as  he  sits  there,  that  he  is  thinking  of 


THE  BALANCE  73 

Sternenberg.  He  is  seeing,  once  more,  his  life  until 
now:  the  little  church  in  Maine,  and  the  shipyards  be- 
side the  ocean  where  he  played  as  a  child;  the  strange, 
alternating  ambitions  of  his  boyhood,  the  one  to  be  a 
ship  mechanic,  the  other  a  great  musician,  resulting 
only  in  this  career  of  organist,  against  the  wishes  of  that 
father  long  since  dead,  and  early  widowed.  It  is  many 
years  since  he  has  even  heard  from  that  scattered  fam- 
ily of  which  he  was  once  a  distant  part.  He  sees  plainly 
now  the  reasons  for  his  father's  grim  insistence  on  the 
business  world  for  his  son.  Art  is  long,  and  life  quite 
short  when  money  is  the  object  in  view.  Yet  he  is 
glad,  after  all,  that  he  is  not  a  clerk.  The  piteousness 
of  the  dull,  blank  life  of  the  slaves  of  modern  industry 
is  overpowering  to  him.  A  few  centuries  ago,  and  he 
would  have  been  an  idealistic  Francis  Villon,  this 
youngish  man  with  the  tender  heart  and  thatchlike 
hair.  In  Melchester,  as  he  sits  this  late  afternoon,  he 
is  merely  a  wandering  musician,  with  the  pocketbook 
of  a  struggling  dramatist  and  the  soul  of  a  poet — with 
underneath  a  genius  that  flashes  out  even  in  the  poor 
cheap  songs  to  which  he  prostitutes  his  talent,  in  order 
to  eke  out  his  living. 

It  is  the  last  song  of  their  opera's  second  act  which 
they  are  writing  to-day — the  waltz  song  so  necessary 
to  any  musical  piece's  success.  They  do  not  know  that 
just  at  present  musical  producers  will  view  askance  a 
piece  with  three  acts,  and  ask  them  to  compress  it  into 
two.  They  do  not  follow  those  fashions  of  Broadway 
which  are  so  necessary,  except  to  genius,  in  the  com- 
mercial drama.  In  fact,  they  are  blissfully  ignorant  of 
what  is  before  them,  in  the  future  of  this  comic  opera 
on  which  they  labour  so  cheerfully,  and  hopefully,  with 
dreams  of  fame  and  quick  success.  "But  a  month" — 
Ricorton  rises  with  a  gesture  of  relief — "a  month, 
Tappy,  and  we'll  try  Broadway  ourselves!" 

And  Sammy  nods  his  head.  Broadway!  At  least 
it  will  not  be  Melchester.  He  is  rilled  with  a  great 
hatred  for  Melchester  now. 


74  THE  BALANCE 

"How  much  money  have  you  got?"  asks  Ricorton 
when  the  silence  has  grown  long. 

"About  five  hundred  dollars,"  answers  Sammy,  "I 
guess. " 

"Why,  a  fortune!"  cries  Ricorton. 

Sammy  is  recalling  the  rapidity  with  which  the  ten 
thousand  vanished,  however. 

"Well,  hardly,"  he  says  gloomily.  At  the  moment 
the  idea  that  he  will  ever  accumulate  any  more  money 
seems  preposterous.  Some  scheme  must  be  devised 
whereby  this  five  hundred  will  last  the  rest  of  his 
natural  life.  It  is  partly  because  he  feels  that  the 
Tappan  name  can  never  clerk  in  Melchester.  Success 
at  twenty-five  seldom  means  a  decade  long  plodding 
to  a  modest  salary.  He  must  make  a  success,  yes,  a 
fine  success  to  win  Carrie!  A  coup  d'etat!  Ambition 
could  have  taken  no  other  form  in  S.  Sydney  Tappan. 
I  think  he  was  destined  for  Broadway. 

It  looked  like  madness  to  old  Mr.  Dabney  that  night 
two  months  later  when  Sammy  told  him  he  was  going 
to  New  York  to  try  the  show  business  with  Ricorton. 
But  it  was  only  our  old  friend  the  Imp  taking  charge 
of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  that  he  might  flee  the  town  of  his 
birth  and  yet  escape  the  stigma  of  defeat. 

This  desperate  advance  upon  the  show  business  will 
make  of  him  a  gallant  knight  once  more  to  Carrie,  you 
see,  going  out  from  the  home  stronghold  to  assault 
the  far-off  city  with  colours  flying,  and  drums  beating, 
and  in  the  rear  only  five  hundred  now  of  that  once 
brave  ten  thousand  who  drove  so  courageously  upon 
the  plumbing  citadel.  Again  the  dramatic  scene!  In 
spite  of  defeat  he  can  still  play  the  hero. 

As  he  sits  in  the  Pullman  smoking  compartment 
not  many  nights  later,  however,  he  does  not  feel  like  a 
hero  at  all.  He  is  trying  hard  to  forget  his  last  parting 
from  Carrie,  as  he  stares  out  at  the  disappearing  lights 
of  Melchester,  a  strange  feeling  in  his  heart — trying 
hard  and  not  succeeding.  All  that  he  can  see  in  the 
window  before  him  is  that  compassionate  face  of  hers, 


THE  BALANCE  75 

her  eyes  brimming  with  tears  for  the  empty  days  and 
nights  ahead,  days  and  nights  no  one  else  can  fill.  All 
he  can  hear,  her  low-broken  "I  just  don't  see,  Sammy 
— don't  see  how  we  can  ever  endure  it."  All  he  can 
remember,  the  last  convulsive  sob  she  so  bravely  swal- 
lowed as  she  pressed  his  hand  good-bye,  and  he  kissed 
her  soft  cheek,  while  the  twinkling  street  lamp  shone 
on  the  budding  branches  of  the  elms  in  the  spring  dusk. 
When  he  awakes  in  the  morning  it  will  be  to  a  new 
life  in  New  York,  he  knows;  with  Melchester  but  a 
half-remembered  dream  of  mingled  happiness  and  pain; 
before  him  a  new  world  to  conquer  now  and  Ricorton 
and  Carrie's  letters  the  only  links  between  him  and  the 
place  that  was  once  his  home. 


f  fOW  Broadway  'presented  to 
I  i  Sammy  and  his  friend  Ricorton 
an  opportunity  to  purchase  an 
operetta  cheap — How  an  introduction 
to  Sylvia  Tremaine  resulted  in  some 
lonely  days  for  Carrie  in  Melchester 
while  her  Sammy  wrote  a  play  in  New 
York — Presenting,  too,  an  advance  and 
private  rehearsal  of  the  Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin  for  Sammy  alone — And  also  the 
slightly  different  view  of  that  smashing 
triumph  in  Melchester  of  which  the  bi- 
ography is  so  proud — With  a  few  words 
on  Carrie's  feelings. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN   WHICH    OUR    SAMMY    BECOMES    A    THEATRICAL 

MAGNATE,  AND  NEARLY  RETURNS  TO  MELCHESTER — 

BUT  STAYS  TO  WRITE  A  PLAY 

SAMMY'S  views  of  New  York  were  almost  numberless, 
but  he  was  never  conscious  of  seeing  the  city  more  than 
twice  in  his  life.  Both  times  he  came  to  it  direct  from 
Melchester  and  Carrie.  Both  times  it  brought  to  him 
a  sense  of  overwhelming  solitude.  The  long  vista  of 
streets,  noisily  succeeding  one  another,  with  grim  inter- 
vals of  high  walls  and  narrow,  shut-in  backyards,  where 
the  clothes  of  a  nation  seemed  hung  out  to  dry,  guarded 
by  old  bottles  and  rusted  iron  and  lean  cats,  with  here 
and  there  a  discouraged  tree  whose  thin  branches  and 
colourless  leaves  seemed  symbolic  of  the  dying  soul  of 
the  inhabitants;  the  endless  succession  of  glimpses 
within  the  windows  of  poverty,  the  dirty  bedclothes 
thrown  back  on  the  bed  awaiting  night  and  the  return 
of  the  occupant;  the  glaring,  confident,  brightly  painted 
signs  shrieking  commercial  virtues  to  the  sky;  the  dirty, 
tiny  children  playing  discordantly  on  the  hard  and 
steaming  sidewalks;  the  mounting  grandeur  of  facade 
and  neighbourhood,  melting  into  the  mighty  buildings 
of  commerce  and  industry,  as  the  centre  of  the  city 
drew  near — culminating,  at  last,  in  the  roar  and  rush 
of  Broadway  and  Forty-second  Street,  with  its  endless 
confusion  of  trucks,  and  cars,  and  taxicabs,  its  million- 
voiced,  million-visaged,  hurrying  humanity — to  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  they  all  spelled  but  the  one  thing 
always — overwhelming  solitude. 

Solitude,  and  with  it  fear — the  fear  of  ignorance. 
Could  any  one  ever  breast  the  current  of  this  vast  tide 

79 


80  THE  BALANCE 

of  strident,  hurrying  people  ?  Ever  make  a  mark  in  the 
changing,  swirling  sands  of  fortune  of  this  tempest  city? 
This  city  of  cities — not  of  brick  or  stone  or  concrete,  but 
of  brilliant  success  and  miserable  failure,  of  wealth  and 
poverty — above,  waves  of  the  fortune  favoured  called 
from  the  ends  of  the  continent,  mounting  higher  and 
higher;  below,  little  whirlpools  of  the  dregs  and  flotsam, 
the  ruined  in  mind  and  body,  spewing  forth  disease 
and  death;  with  between  the  treadmill  of  the  dull 
majority,  heavy,  lifeless,  ignorant,  and  menacing,  re- 
volving their  daily  round  of  grinding  out  a  profit  amid 
the  solitude  that  throngs  the  streets. 

Except  for  Ricorton,  our  Sammy  is  alone.  Within 
his  inside  pocket  is  a  New  York  draft  for  five  hundred 
dollars.  With  these  two  aids  he  has  come  to  storm 
New  York,  and  learn  what  solitude  can  mean.  He  is 
looking,  rather  appalled  if  the  truth  be  told,  out  of  the 
window  of  his  Pullman  this  morning  as  the  panorama 
of  New  York  rolls  by  his  gaze,  until  the  tunnel  shuts  off 
his  view  and  the  rising  passengers  say  plainly  that  the 
journey's  end  has  come. 

It  is  Ricorton  who  takes  charge,  then,  as  they  go  in 
search  of  three  addresses,  each  taken  from  a  morning 
paper,  and  setting  forth  the  glories  of  furnished  rooms 
to  rent  at  sums  of  from  four  to  six  dollars  weekly. 
He  has  three  introductions  rone  to  an  organist,  a  friend, 
once,  back  in  Maine,  playing  now  at  noon  hour  in  a 
department  store;  a  second  to  that  agent  for  choir 
masters  and  organists,  Sternenberg;  and  a  third,  ah, 
what  hopes!  the  third  is  from  the  dramatic  editor  of  the 
Melchester  Democrat  Herald  to  a  Mr.  Hazleton,  a 
gentleman  of  consequence  in  the  great  Kane's  office, 
that  producer  of  many  musical  comedies,  and  legitimate 
prey  for  these  two  babes  in  the  modern  woods,  with  their 
masterpiece  so  carefully  bestowed  in  our  Sammy's  bag. 
Sammy  is  under  solemn  promise  to  telegraph  to  Carrie 
just  exactly  what  the  great  man  says.  Unless,  how- 
ever, he  wires  that  the  great  Kane  has  fallen  upon  his 
neck  and  wept  for  gratitude,  I  fear  she  will  labour 


THE  BALANCE  81 

under  the  suspicion  that  there  are  very  few  discerning 
minds  in  the  theatres.  Appreciation  of  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  was  always  her  criterion  of  judgment. 

This  back  room  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  looks 
quite  inviting,  Ricorton  and  our  Sammy  decide,  as  the 
landlord,  French  and  muscular,  yet  singularly  effemi- 
nate, stands  smiling  at  them.  He  does  not  suspect,  this 
landlord,  that  they  are  in  any  way  connected  with  the 
profession — theatrical,  of  course — or  he  would  discour- 
age them  from  taking  rooms  with  him.  Uncertain  pay, 
these  under  Thespians,  and  possessed  of  strange  flitting 
habits,  leaving  trunks  as  security,  to  which  no  one  ever 
returns. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan,  however,  can  be  nothing  less  than 
a  gentleman,  M'sieu  Clouet  decides.  A  rare  sight  these 
days,  upon  the  streets  of  this  New  York!  There  can 
be  no  mistaking  the  high  cheek  bone  and  forehead,  the 
lines  of  chin  and  head.  His  companion — well,  an  artist, 
perhaps,  with  that  straggling  hair  and  black  bow  tie, 
and  an  artist  M'sieu  Clouet  can  understand,  particu- 
larly when  accompanied  by  a  gentleman. 

He  is  not  too  particular,  this  landlord — there  is  some 
doubt,  for  instance,  of  the  lady,  not  quite  young  now, 
who  has  the  hall  bedroom  on  the  second  floor.  She 
laughs  and  giggles  nights,  when  presumably  alone  in  her 
room.  Of  course,  the  light  is  on,  and  it  may  be  that  she 
reads.  But  the  front  door  seems  to  close  quite  late, 
on  evenings  such  as  those,  and  a  visitor  from  some  one's 
room  has  gone  home — it  may  not  be,  of  course,  from 
hers.  Still  she  pays  her  rent,  and  that  is  a  great  deal 
these  days  in  New  York.  No,  M'sieu  Clouet  is  not  too 
particular.  Unless  business  is  quite  poor  he  discour- 
ages actors — that  is  all.  These  gentlemen  have  trunks, 
too,  they  tell  him — so  that  possibly  they  have  come  to 
make  a  long  stay.  He  has  gone  down  the  stairs  in  a 
moment,  still  smiling,  and  the  two  wanderers  are  left 
alone  in  the  room  that  is  to  see  the  death  of  one  and 
change  the  course  of  the  other's  life. 

This  particular  room  is  fitted  up  with  two  gas  plates 


82  THE  BALANCE 

by  the  closet,  so  that  meals  may  be  gotten  by  the 
occupant.  On  the  floor  the  faded  remnant  of  a  once 
fine  parlour  carpet  holds  forth  its  invitation  to  the 
insect  world,  while  beside  the  windows  with  their 
cheap  green  shades,  brave  makeshifts  at  linen  curtains 
hang  in  white  strings.  Between  the  windows,  the 
cheap  oak  dresser  holds  a  cracked  but  still  gallant 
mirror,  reflecting  the  cheap  prints  and  vegetable  litho- 
graphs upon  the  walls,  while  upon  one  side  of  the  room 
two  beds  take  up  the  space,  the  one  of  iron,  painted 
white,  with  strange  curved  head  and  foot,  the  other  a 
small  cot,  with  sunken  centre  and  wan,  anaemic  pillow. 
Over  all  the  desperate  poverty  of  the  chamber,  the 
spirit  of  the  faded  carpet  struggles,  achieving  a  feeling 
in  the  beholder,  somehow,  in  spite  of  all  the  tawdriness, 
of  comfort  and  of  home. 

It  is  this  which  has  made  our  two  friends  think 
the  room  quite  inviting.  They  will  be  installed  soon, 
Sammy  with  his  typewriter,  and  Ricorton  with  his 
manuscripts.  There  is  a  restaurant  around  the  corner 
on  Eighth  Avenue,  past  the  inevitable  saloon,  called 
the  Bee,  at  which  they  propose  to  dine  for  an  average 
expense  of  twenty-five  cents  a  meal.  In  this  way, 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  believes  his  five  hundred  dollars 
will  last  until  he  is  famous.  As  for  Ricorton,  he  is 
frankly  looking  for  a  job,  although  he  does  not  know 
what  he  will  say  when  they  ask  him  what  show  he  had 
out  last.  He  only  knows  that  he  can  read  ''Tristan 
et  Isolde  "at  sight,  and  so  does  not  fear  any  comic-opera 
music  ever  written.  He  at  least  can  drill  the  show. 
The  chorus  work  will  come  first,  and  it  will  be  two 
months  before  the  leader's  baton  can  be  pushed  into 
his  unwilling  hands.  At  chorus  work,  too,  he  knows 
that  he  will  shine.  His  work  with  choirs  will  come  in 
handy,  now. 

The  thing  he  does  not  know  is  that,  with  the  coming 
of  spring  and  warm  weather,  comes  also  the  dull  time 
for  Thespians.  Warm  weather  and  summer,  when 
the  cafes  around  Forty-second  Street  will  be  thronged 


THE  BALANCE  83 

with  actors — two  deep  around  the  bar  at  Paddock's, 
the  Hermitage,  the  old  Cadillac,  the  Kaiser  Hof,  the 
chosen  few  at  Shanley's  where  the  bar  prices  are  higher, 
and  the  rest  scattered  far  and  wide  in  Green  Teapots 
and  German  Hofs,  the  Knickerbocker,  and  the  other 
hotels  and  clubs  around  this  district  which  is  New  York 
to  them.  They  will  be  crowded  thick  into  the  leather- 
seated  stalls  exchanging  reminiscences,  each  one  for 
his  own  ears  alone,  stories  in  which  managers  and 
theatre  magnates  play  undesirable,  ignominious  parts, 
and  audiences  are  stricken  dead  all  the  way  from  Peak's 
Island  to  Frisco.  A  strange,  wild  country,  this  United 
States,  from  the  accounts  one  may  gather  on  Forty- 
second  Street  of  a  June  afternoon. 

This  is  what  is  coming  to  our  Sammy  and  his  friend 
Ricorton,  until  they  will  wonder,  in  stunned  despair, 
if  there  can  ever  be  jobs  enough  in  the  theatrical  world 
to  support  this  hoard,  ever  enough  money  taken  in  at 
box  offices  to  pay  even  half  the  salaries  these  Thespians 
say  they  must  receive  before  they  will  go  out  again. 

Two  days  suffice  to  bring  home  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
the  realization  that  things  cannot  be  hurried  in  New 
York.  There  are  one  or  two  people  ahead  of  him, 
who  have  other  plans  than  his.  Hazleton  has  received 
them,  in  a  bored  way,  at  the  great  Kane's  offices  on 
Forty-sixth  Street — he  can  barely  remember  who  the 
dramatic  editor  of  the  Melchester  Democrat  Herald 
is — and  has  looked  through  their  great  work  with 
languid  interest. 

Yes,  he  will  have  it  read,  he  says.  The  book  will 
have  to  be  revised  and  rewritten,  of  course.  They 
do  not  use  left  centre  any  more,  and  the  name  of  the 
character  who  is  speaking  must  be  written  in  the 
centre  of  the  page,  not  at  the  side.  Directions,  too, 
in  red,  not  black.  Quite  useless  probably,  but  he  will 
have  their  readers  look  it  over.  No,  there  is  no  need 
of  his  hearing  the  music;  they  would  not  take  it,  any- 
way, if  the  book  is  not  up  to  the  mark.  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  is  shrewd  enough  to  know  that  these  are  super- 


84  THE  BALANCE 

ficial  objections.  But  of  what  avail  the  knowledge, 
if  they  are  potent  with  Mr.  Hazleton?  Their  pro- 
ductions are  all  mapped  out  for  next  year  now,  any- 
way, the  great  man's  secretary  says — but  they  are 
always  glad  to  look  things  over. 

They  have  waited  three  hours  to  hear  him  say  this, 
three  hours  in  the  dark  anteroom  beneath  the  super- 
cilious scowl  of  the  red-haired,  lordly  office  boy;  so 
that  it  is  afternoon  when  they  turn  away,  and  go  down 
toward  Sternenberg's. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  waits  outside,  to  the  sound  of  seven 
simultaneously  played  pianos  in  the  rooms  of  a  musical 
firm,  each  instrument  suffering  from  a  different  com- 
position, while  Ricorton  goes  up  in  the  elevator  and 
interviews  him. 

Ric  is  rather  grim  faced  when  he  comes  out. 

"It's  robbery,  Tappy,"  he  says  shortly. 

Mr.  Sternenberg  has  refused  to  secure  him  any  job 
unless  the  percentage  is  raised  another  5  per  cent., 
and  an  advance  payment  made.  He  has  been  cheated 
too  many  times,  he  has  told  Ricorton.  Secretly,  how- 
ever, I  fear  Mr.  Sternenberg  has  suspected  that  our 
friend  Ricorton  wishes  a  job  of  some  kind  rather  badly. 
He  has  told  him  of  a  certain  Grote,  a  branch  member 
of  the  famous  chorus  girl  agency,  where  summer  jobs 
for  musical  directors  can  sometimes  be  secured. 

Ricorton  does  not  hear  Mr.  Sternenberg  telephoning 
to  his  friend  Mark  Grote,  as  he  and  Sammy  bend  their 
steps  toward  that  gentleman's  place  of  business,  or  he 
would  not  be  so  surprised  when  he  finds  that  there,  too, 
the  same  terms  are  in  force  except  for  the  advance 
payment.  It  has  looked  to  Mr.  Sternenberg  as  if 
this  particular  seeker  for  a  job  has  not  the  necessary 
cash  to  pay  in  advance.  Perhaps  that  is  why  Mr. 
Grote  so  kindly  waives  that  condition,  as  a  favour, 
and  does  what  he  can  for  him.  It  is  a  favour!  The 
extra  5  per  cent,  is  not  to  be  despised,  you  see. 

Lyric  Hall  at  ten-thirty!  so  the  little  man  tells  them. 
Mr.  Hagaman  is  the  name  for  which  to  ask.  Room 


THE  BALANCE  85 

number  five,  "The  Honeymooners!"  Ricorton  has  an 
opportunity  to  try  for  a  position  as  musical  director 
of  a  piece  for  vaudeville. 

Sammy  shall  come  along,  they  decide  that  night  at 
Ricotti's,  the  'Italian  joint'  on  Tenth  Street,  where 
they  have  gone  to  celebrate  their  entrance  into  the 
world  of  art;  and  they  drink  the  dark,  red  ink  Signer 
Ricotti  provides  until  the  horses  and  animals  which 
are  painted  on  the  windows  beneath  the  balcony  seem 
to  wink  and  nod  their  heads  at  them,  and  the  place 
assume  the  appearance  of  a  courtyard.  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  shall  be  introduced  as  an  author  to  Mr.  Haga- 
man,  and  perhaps  secure  an  entrance,  in  this  way,  to 
the  vaudeville  world.  Fame  is  thus  at  hand,  and  all 
necessity  for  twenty-five-cent  meals  at  the  Bee  dissi- 
pated. A  gay  pair,  our  two  friends  to-night. 

It  is  when  they  return  to  West  Twenty-ninth  Street 
at  midnight,  still  flushed  with  the  excitement  of  their 
success,  that  Sammy  finds  a  letter  thrust  under  the 
door  of  their  room.  It  is  from  Carrie.  She  has  written: 


"  Dearest  Sammy,  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  ever  since  we 
said  good-bye,  although  I  know  I  must  not,  but  must  be  brave, 
and  not  make  you  homesick  or  miserable  with  my  troubles. 
Home  seems  to  have  departed  with  you  on  the  train  to  New 
York.  I  no  longer  can  hope  to  run  into  you  when  I  go  down- 
town, and  all  the  joy  of  existence  seems  to  have  gone.  There  is 
nothing  but  the  houses  left.  I  have  been  wondering  so  much,  too, 
how  you  have  come  out  with  Mr.  Kane,  and  what  he  said,  and  did, 
and  how  he  liked  it,  and  what  he  is  going  to  do.  I  just  know  that 
he  will  take  it!  It  is  so  good!  And  it  will  be  a  great  success,  and 
make  you  all  a  lot  of  money.  Though  I  do  not  care  so  much  for 
money  as  I  do  for  the  success  which  will  enable  us  to  be  together, 
and  let  you  do  the  things  you  ought  to  in  the  world. 

"Father  is  just  the  same  as  ever,  and  so  is  mother!  Is  it  just 
age  do  you  suppose,  and  will  we  get  that  way?  Or  have  they  for- 
gotten everything  in  the  money  father  has  made?  Money  success 
seems  to  be  all  they  think  of.  I  wonder  is  it  true  of  everybody, 
after  they  have  worked  and  struggled,  and  met  the  world,  and  our 
social  plan  has  moulded  them?  Do  they  all  become  so  hard  and 
cynical? 

"I  have  started  my  work  down  at  the  Settlement,  in  spite  of 


86  THE  BALANCE 

father's  laughter  and  mother's  sarcasm.  She  calls  them  'scum!' 
I  am  sure  your  mother  wouldn't  if  she  had  lived.  Though  the 
older  generation  do  not  seem  to  feel  the  way  some  of  us  young 
girls  do.  I  wish  you  could  meet  Mrs.  Lewis,  our  director — she  is 
such  an  inspiration.  She  makes  the  work  a  pleasure.  We  are 
all  just  lumps  of  coal,  she  says.  Undeveloped  possibilities!  A 
match  to  light  us,  and  our  power  is  magnificent.  I  wonder  is 
father  all  burned  out,  or  never  lighted  at  all?  Some  of  the  people 
I  visit  work  for  him  I  find,  but  they  don't  kaow  I  am  his  daughter. 
I  would  not  tell  it  to  any  one  but  you,  but  there  are  times  down 
there  when  I  am  not  proud  of  being  Carolyn  Schroeder. 

"It  is  awfully  late  now,  however,  and  I  won't  catch  the  last  col- 
lection unless  I  stop.  I  am  always  hoping,  Sammy,  for  your  suc- 
cess— you  know  that,  don't  you?  As  always, 

"CARRIE." 


Ah,  Carrie!  She  is  the  same  always.  Yet  how  far 
away  that  world  in  Melchester  seems,  how  insignificant, 
our  Sammy  thinks,  as  he  sits  down  beneath  the  crooked 
gas  jet,  and  answers  her  letter  so  that  she  will  know 
that  the  great  Kane  has  said  nothing  yet  that  will 
warrant  a  telegram.  They  have  a  start  now,  however, 
in  Ricorton's  chance  at  this  job  and  perhaps  that  is  the 
start  of  "getting  in!" 

There  is  no  habitat  for  day  dreams,  I  suppose,  but 
cracked  mirrors  and  old  green  shades  seem  to  harbour 
those  of  the  grander  sort — furnished  rooms,  by  a  kind 
of  inverted  power  of  suggestion,  bringing  to  their 
occupants  visions  of  fame  and  crowded  theatres,  steam 
yachts  and  country  clubs.  Carrie  could  never  have 
realized  from  that  letter  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  that  a 
second  floor  back  room  was  sheltering  two  dreamy 
young  men,  with  every  chance  for  failure,  and  hardly 
one  for  success — armed,  only,  with  unconquerable 
hope  and  profound  ignorance,  and  Ricorton's  ability 
to  read  music  at  sight. 

An  ability  to  read  at  sight!  How  far  a  trifle  of  real 
knowledge,  a  modicum  of  real  ability  will  carry  one 
in  this  world  of  mediocrity  and  slovenliness !  Seven 
musical  directors  so  far  this  next  morning  in  Lyric 
Hall,  and  not  one  who  can  really  read  the  world-old 


THE  BALANCE  87 

harmonies  and  almost  prehistoric  melodies  of  "The 
Honeymooners"  score.  Musical  memory,  alone,  should 
very  nearly  have  sufficed  to  read  it.  It  is  why  Ricorton 
heaves  that  sigh  of  relief  as  he  hears  the  seven  struggling 
with  it,  their  fingers  striking  wrong  notes,  their  eyes 
upon  the  fifty  dollars  per  week  which  the  union  scale 
allows  directors,  while  the  other  rooms  of  the  building 
give  forth  that  horrible  malady  of  sound  called  re- 
hearsal. 

Gods  of  Harmony,  who  named  Lyric  Hall? 

S.  Sydney  Tappan,  sitting  on  an  empty  bench  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room  from  the  piano  and  the  little 
knot  of  people  who  are  gathered  round  it,  wonders 
when  Ric  will  get  a  chance.  That  girl  in  gray,  with 
the  mouth  whose  corners  seem  always  about  to  turn 
up  in  a  smile,  must  be  the  leading  lady,  he  reflects.  She 
seems  quite  conscious  of  her  figure,  and  not  at  all 
averse  to  treating  bystanders  to  glimpses  of  her  well- 
turned  ankles,  and  more,  as  she  sits  swinging  her  legs 
on  a  table.  Ruby,  they  all  call  her.  Is  that  Irish- 
man beside  her  the  other  lead,  he  wonders?  There  is 
something  about  the  man  which  is  not  attractive,  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  decides.  It  is  not  his  loud  checked 
suit  nor  his  habit  of  posing  either,  he  sees  a  moment 
later,  but  a  sort  of  offensive  self-assurance,  speaking 
of  inordinate  conceit.  He  seems  to  have  a  strange 
habit  of  disregarding  what  is  said  to  him,  brushing 
aside  the  conversation,  at  times,  to  join  in  suddenly 
with  statements  made  in  an  unanswerable  tone.  Jack 
Bantry  is  his  name. 

Sammy's  thoughts  are  cut  short,  however,  by  the 
advent  of  Ricorton  at  the  piano. 

That  the  reason  for  the  seven  poor  musical  directors 
is  because  this  vaudeville  act  has  very  uncertain  back- 
ing is  unknown  to  the  musician  as  he  sits  down  rather 
shakily,  and  tries  a  chord  or  two.  He  is  as  nervous 
as  if  this  were  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  In 
back  of  him,  too,  he  can  hear  the  people  talking. 

"Oh,  quit  being  so  sorry  for  yourself,  Jack,"  the 


girl  called  Ruby  is  saying  easily.  "You're  a  regular 
gloom  these  days!" 

"Get  on  to  the  wig,"  Bantry  retorts,  with  evident 
reference  to  Ricorton's  yellow  thatch. 

"That's  all  right,  Baby  doll,"  Ruby  replies.  "He 
can  play.  Listen.  He's  a  real  one." 

For  Ricorton  has  started  now,  and  the  score  is  un- 
rolling beneath  his  facile  fingers.  No,  there  is  not 
much  doubt  about  it — Ricorton  is  a  real  one. 

The  small,  pale  young  man,  with  an  ugly  trick  of 
speaking  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  whom  they  all 
call  Hagaman,  springs  up  from  beside  a  puffy-faced 
gentleman,  and  stops  him. 

"You  will  do,"  he  says  quickly.  "Let's  start  them 
on  the  show." 

He  means  play  it  all  for  them,  while  somebody  ex- 
plains the  stage  business.  George  Matspn,  an  old 
hand  at  this  game,  in  spite  of  his  youthful,  immaculate 
look,  will  do  this  to-day.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  S. 
Sydney  Tappan,  as  he  watches,  that  Matson  and  Haga- 
man, the  agent,  leave  very  little  for  the  puffy-faced 
gentleman,  who  sits  in  the  only  armchair,  to  say. 

He  is  Thompson,  "the  angel,"  with  little  puffs  from 
last  night's  gayety  beneath  his  eyes,  his  gaze  fixed, 
now,  for  the  most  part,  upon  Ruby.  There  is  not 
much  money  in  vaudeville  so  far,  but  there  are  a  great 
many  attractive  girls  with  whom  one  is  thrown  quite 
informally.  Our  Mr.  Thompson  is  endeavouring  for 
once,  however,  to  put  the  allurements  of  the  fair  sex 
from  his  mind.  He  has  thrown  away  most  of  his 
money  upon  Broadway,  and  if  he  is  not  to  retire  again 
to  Pittsburgh  must  recoup  himself.  This  "Honey- 
mooners"  act  must  succeed.  It  is  only  habit  asserting 
itself,  when  he  gazes  upon  Ruby. 

Thousands,  these  vanishing,  reappearing  figures  on 
Broadway  of  which  our  Mr.  Thompson  is  one;  coming 
from  the  great  inland  continent  that  stretches  from 
Montreal  to  Galveston,  retiring  again,  after  a  short 
space,  to  their  theatres  in  Williamsport,  their  iron 


THE  BALANCE  •   89 

furnaces  in  Muskegon,  their  wheat  lands  in  the  Red 
River  Valley,  their  mines  in  Cripple  Creek,  their  stores 
in  Salt  Lake  City;  gamblers  mostly,  some  serious,  vi- 
cious, the  majority  weak — all  victims  sooner  or  later 
of  the  lights  of  the  sex  drama  of  Broadway;  the  smell  of 
perfume  and  of  powder  bringing  up  to  them  for  a  life- 
time the  vision  of  New  York  at  night.  From  them  the 
Hagamans  of  the  theatrical  buildings  derive  their  living, 
and  the  Matsons  fill  in  their  vacant  time  from  staging 
real  productions. 

Our  Mr.  Thompson  has  little  money  now;  so  little 
that  he  does  not  care  to  think  of  the  time  when  it  will 
be  necessary  to  secure  the  costumes  and  scenery  he  has 
ordered — when,  too,  the  people  he  has  hired  will  begin 
to  ask  for  advances  on  their  salaries,  so  that  they  may 
live. 

No  money  in  their  pockets  ever,  these  under  Thes- 
pians, these  inconsequential  chorus  girls  of  widely  vary- 
ing types;  some  with  the  hard  look  and  manner  of  the 
burlesque  queens  they  have  supported;  some  with 
earnest  eyes  and  poor  voices,  and  a  great  desire  to  make 
enough  money  to  justify  their  choice  of  a  livelihood, 
with,  perhaps,  enough  over  to  send  much-needed  as- 
sistance to  a  home  in  Vermont  or  Indiana;  others,  with 
the  inviting  eyes  and  enticing  manners  which  betray 
their  characters;  still  others  with  rouged  lips  and  powd- 
ered cheeks,  and  memories  of  midnight  suppers  in 
cafes  in  St.  Louis  and  in  Cleveland,  of  college  youths 
and  brokers,  and  a  first-class  show  by  Herbert  or  Friml 
— newspaper  chorus  girls,  these  last,  the  chorus  girls 
of  the  cheap  paragrapher;  by  far  in  the  minority,  how- 
ever, in  the  actual  life  of  the  stage.  No  money  ever 
in  the  pockets  of  these  chorus  men  either;  these  ex- 
press clerks  with  voices;  youths  from  the  ribbon  coun- 
ters, possessing  good  looks  of  a  type;  serious  students  of 
the  voice,  desirous  of  experience;  and  once  in  a  while 
that  professional  chorus  type — the  ne'er-do-well  who 
loves  the  vagabond  life  of  the  under  Thespian. 

Our  Mr.  Thompson  does  not  fear  these  credulous 


90  THE  BALANCE 

beings,  however,  these  people  willing  to  be  hired  by  any 
chance  bystander  who  has  sufficient  courage  to  ask 
them.  He  only  fears  lest  his  money  give  out  before 
the  first  tryout  weeks  are  over — weeks  when,  he  knows 
from  past  experience,  he  will  not  make  expenses.  The 
graft  of  the  booking  offices  must  first  be  paid;  and  a 
fine  show,  playing  at  starvation  wages  in  certain  fa- 
voured theatres,  is  the  first  part  of  the  graft. 

Thompson  realizes  this  as  he  turns  away  from  Ruby's 
slender  ankles  to  devote  himself  to  the  business  in 
hand.  He  must  save  his  money,  and  rush  this  show 
through  to  a  success.  This  new  musical  director 
completes  the  company  now,  once  more — provided 
that  he  knows  his  business,  and  does  not  disappoint 
as  the  ones  before  him  have  done.  But  Ricorton  is  of 
different  stuff  than  his  predecessors.  You  need  not 
fear  that  he  will  not  work,  Mr.  Thompson! 

It  is  when  the  rehearsal  is  over  that  Ricorton  in- 
troduces S.  Sydney  Tappan  to  them  all.  S.  Sydney 
Tappan,  author  and  playwright! 

As  Sammy  thus  makes  his  first  bow  to  New  York, 
I  think  he  is  trying  to  decide  just  how  much  importance 
he  may  safely  take  to  himself.  It  was  fortunate  for 
him  that  he  decided  in  that  moment  that  the  truth 
would  never  do.  New  York  listens  only  to  those  who 
shout. 

Matson  is  talking  to  him  now. 

"  What  line  of  stuff? "  he  asks,  half  interested.  Every 
new  playwright  may  some  day  have  a  piece  upon  the 
boards,  and  whipping  pieces  of  all  kinds  into  shape  is  his 
livelihood. 

It  was  then  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  decided. 

"Plays,"  he  says  easily.  The  moment  he  has  said 
it,  he  wonders  how  he  could  ever  have  considered  say- 
ing anything  else.  How  simple,  this  pose  as  a  play- 
wright! New  York  is  large.  Well — and  he  is  one — of 
a  kind,  too. 

"Any  one-act  plays  for  vaudeville?"  queries  Haga- 
man. 


THE  BALANCE  91 

It  occurs  to  our  Sammy  that  this  may  be  an  order. 
He  will  lose  no  opportunity. 

"Oh,  a  couple,"  he  replies  carelessly. 

Hagaman  takes  out  a  card,  and  scribbles  on  it. 

"Tremaine  is  looking  for  one,"  he  says.  "She  wants 
a  little  tour  on  the  big  time,  on  the  strength  of  'The 
Betrayer.'" 

The  big  time!  Oh,  yes,  he  means  the  circuit  of  large 
vaudeville  theatres  which  can  offer  good  salaries. 
Dimly,  too,  Sammy  remembers  this  name  on  the  card. 
Sylvia  Tremaine.  A  well-known  actress,  and  a  suc- 
cessful play.  Here  is  a  chance,  indeed ! 

"I  will  look  her  up,  if  I  have  time,"  he  answers  easily. 
How  the  part  of  the  great  man  fits  him!  It  is  the  hero, 
grown  older. 

Rehearsal  is  not  again  until  two  o'clock,  so  he  and 
Ricorton  go  out  for  luncheon. 

"  Did  you  notice  the  girl  with  the  gray  eyes,  Tappy  ?" 
asks  Ricorton,  trying  to  be  casual,  as  they  go  down 
Forty-second  Street. 

"You  mean  Ruby?"  Sammy  replies.  Yes,  he  has 
noticed  her. 

"She  rather  gets  to  me,  Tappy,"  Ricorton  confesses, 
a  little  shamefacedly.  "I  could  stand  having  her 
around — though  that  Jack  affair  seems  to  think  she  is 
his  preserve." 

Sammy  is  silent.  Ruby  is  attractive,  he  can  see,  in 
her  way,  but  in  his  mind  is  the  image  of  Carrie,  back  in 
Melchester,  and  the  comparison  does  Ruby  little  credit. 

Ricorton,  however,  is  not  the  only  one  who  has  found 
attractive  new  acquaintances.  Ruby,  too,  has  taken 
a  great  liking  to  the  tall  young  man  with  the  sensitive 
face  and  thatchlike  hair.  He  does  not  look  her  over 
in  that  way  that  still  makes  her  shrink  in  spite  of  six 
years'  experience  in  musicalcomedy.  He  reminds  her  of 
the  people  with  whom  she  once  went  to  high  school  up 
in  Utica,  and  whom  she  still  meets  once  in  a  great  while, 
when  she  runs  back  to  see  her  mother  in  the  millinery 
department  of  one  of  the  stores. 


92  THE  BALANCE 

That  is  why,  when  he  asks  her,  that  afternoon,  to  go 
for  dinner  with  himself  and  Tappy,  she  does  not  refuse. 
A  free  and  easy  world,  this  theatrical  New  York,  with 
less  vice  than  show  of  it.  She  likes  Ricorton,  the  new 
musical  director,  and  his  silent  friend — Sammy  does 
not  wish  to  break  that  great  man  illusion  by  ignorant 
remarks ! — so  why  should  she  not  go  ? 

"How  did  you  get  in  on  this  affair?"  asks  Ricorton, 
as  they  begin  the  soup  of  a  sixty-cent  table  d'hote. 

"Me?"  replies  Ruby  calmly,  fixing  her  gray  eyes  on 
him.  "Oh,  Matson  dropped  me  a  card.  It's  low-brow 
stuff,  and  ought  to  get  over.  No  more  of  that  tall- 
dome  drama  for  mine.  High  and  dry,  twice  now. 
The  last  time  in  Lafayette,  Indiana.  The  college  boys 
got  us  to  Fort  Wayne  and  the  Erie,  gosh,  that  Erie! 
It  must  go  to  China  on  its  way  to  New  York.  You 
wake  up  in  the  morning  and  you're  farther  off  from  the 
bright  lights  than  ever." 

"  Who  is  this  Thompson  ? "  asks  Sammy. 

"You've  got  me,"  she  answers.  "Looks  like  a 
chicken  chaser  to  me.  The  backwoods  for  his  if  he 
doesn't  give  himself  a  vacation.  Those  eyes!" 

This  girl  is  free  and  easy,  with  the  laxity  that  the 
stage  imparts,  but  her  eye  is  clear  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
sees,  and  she  knows  her  mind.  It  is  a  new  type  to  him. 
Inwardly,  he  marvels  over  the  heedlessness  with  which 
she  will  go  out  on  the  road  in  this  show  whose  backer 
she  does  not  know  at  all.  Her  self-possession,  also, 
is  new  to  him.  How  does  it  happen  he  has  never  heard 
of  her  in  any  of  those  musical  shows  which  have  gone 
through  Melchester?  Her  voice,  he  remembers  from 
the  afternoon,  is  quite  good,  very  nearly  fine.  He  can 
judge  that  instinctively,  with  the  unconscious  knowl- 
edge those  musical  evenings  of  his  early  life  in  Paris 
and  Melchester  have  given  him. 

But  she  has  turned  to  Ricorton,  now. 

"I  am  glad  you're  going,"  she  says  frankly,  "instead 
of  that  last  one  they  had.  The  little  French  pig! 
Where  he  got  his  recommend  from  is  a  mystery  to  me." 


THE  BALANCE  93 

Sammy  is  filled  with  a  curiosity  to  know  the  history 
of  this  girl. 

"Where  did  you  study?"  he  asks. 

She  looks  at  him  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"Study?"  she  repeats.  "Why,  I  haven't  studied 
since  I  left  Utica,  I  guess.  I  don't  want  anybody 
monkeying  with  my  vocal  chords.  Why?" 

"Why,  you've  got  a  good  voice,  that  is  all.  I  won- 
dered who  trained  it,"  replies  Sammy. 

She  stares  at  him  a  moment  half  in  doubt. 

"Don't  try  to  kid  me,"  she  says,  then.  "Thank 
God,  it  stays  with  me." 

"I  wasn't  kidding,"  our  Sammy  replies  seriously. 
"I  meant  it." 

She  stares  at  him  a  second,  still  puzzled.  Then 
she  gives  a  little  laugh. 

"We'll  let  it  pass  this  time,"  she  says.  He  has 
meant  it,  after  all.  She  turns  to  Ricorton. 

"I  like  your  friend,"  she  cries. 

"Oh,  he's  taken  already,"  Ricorton  replies  with  a 
smile. 

Ruby  looks  at  Sammy  with  an  expression  of  frank 
friendship. 

"You  tell  her,  for  me,  she  better  come  and  rope  you 
before  somebody  else  snatches  you  up." 

It  was  the  only  time,  I  think,  that  Carrie's  existence 
was  brought  to  Ruby's  attention,  until  the  end.  I  have 
always  liked  to  think  that  she  promptly  forgot  it. 

Ricorton,  however,  has  no  Carrie  back  in  Melchester, 
and  the  gay  laughter  and  clear  voice  of  this  girl  brighten 
his  gray  world  as  it  has  not  been  brightened  since  he 
left  Maine.  He  realized,  even  then,  how  attractive 
she  was  to  him.  It  was  partly  her  mere  physical  pres- 
ence that  stirred  him  so,  as  he  noticed  the  dainty  ten- 
drils of  her  hair,  the  velvet  softness  of  her  cheeks;  but 
beyond  all  pulse  of  passion  there  was  the  feeling  of 
frank,  spontaneous  companionship  which  she  exuded 
like  a  perfume. 

She  is  not  exotic,  this  young  actress;  in  spite  of 


94  THE  BALANCE 

nights  of  paint  and  powder,  she  gives  an  indefinable 
impression  of  health  and  warm  blood.  In  the  sparkling 
eyes,  however,  there  is  just  a  hint  of  temperament,  per- 
haps of  moods,  which  betrays  the  reason  for  her  choice  of 
a  profession.  One  hundred  dollars  a  week  is  her  price, 
and  vaudeville  is  easier  than  comic  opera.  That  is 
why  she  is  in  <rThe  Honeymooners."  As  for  the  backing 
of  the  piece,  she  is  philosophical.  If  it  is  not  a  success, 
she  will  be  left  in  the  lurch  anyway — so  it  is  up  to  her 
to  put  it  over  in  so  far  as  she  is  able.  No  life  for  weak- 
lings, this  theatrical  existence! 

How  far  away,  how  almost  nebulous  seem  the  sub- 
stantial houses  of  Melchester,  the  stores  of  Mr. 
Schroeder,  that  past  world  of  society  to  our  Sammy,  as 
he  sits  thus  in  that  lower  New  York  cafe!  They  might 
be  two  spheres  with  all  space  in  between,  as  well  as  two 
cities  and  two  modes  of  life.  Does  Ricorton  feel  it,  he 
wonders,  as  he  looks  at  his  friend  and  sees  the  look  of 
gayety  in  his  blue  eyes  ? 

It  is  Bohemia  which  our  Sammy  sees  in  the  musician's 
blue  eyes,  however.  Bohemia!  That  vision  of  the 
future  vouchsafed  to  the  poor  in  pocket  and  spreading 
its  magic  filaments  over  the  sordid  present!  One 
must  have  a  vision,  and  spend  one's  life  blood  upon  its 
realization,  to  properly  enter  into  Bohemia.  It  is 
the  palette  from  which  the  dirty  houses  are  so  finely 
gilded.  As  an  accident  can  be  a  jest,  so  poverty  be- 
comes Bohemia.  The  immortal  point  of  view! 

This  is  why  Ricorton  seems  so  happy  to-night.  He 
is  in  his  element.  But  our  Sammy  is  realizing  that 
first  stab  of  loneliness  for  Carrie,  which  is  to  grow  to 
such  proportions.  Our  lives  are  filled  with  hope.  It  is 
what  keeps  us  from  realizing  the  drama  of  our  existence. 
The  edge  is  taken  from  our  souls,  at  the  dramatic 
moment,  by  our  everlasting  hope,  and  it  is  all  that  keeps 
the  tears  from  our  Sammy's  eyes  as  he  sits  and  sips  his 
wine.  It  will  not  be  long  now,  he  thinks,  before  he 
can  return  to  Carrie  as  the  conquering  hero. 

He  is  not  aware  that  the  five  hundred  dollars,  which 


THE  BALANCE  95 

he  is  cannily  apportioning  so  that  it  will  last  until  he 
has  become  famous,  will  be  in  serious  danger  soon. 
How  futile  most  human  plans  become  when  the  hour 
for  action  strikes!  That  five  hundred  which  he  is 
hoarding  is  about  to  take  part  in  a  direct  assault  upon 
the  theatrical  battlements. 

It  is  two  weeks  later  that  the  blow  falls  upon  the  little 
band  of  Thespians  who  are  rehearsing  in  Lyric  Hall. 
Our  friend  Mr.  Thompson  has  departed  upon  the  night 
train  for  Pittsburgh,  washing  his  hands  thus  finally  of 
"The  Honey mooners" ;  leaving  the  act  in  its  third  week  of 
rehearsal,  with  scenery  and  costumes  ready,  and  even 
the  tryout  nights  arranged  for  down  on  Fourteenth 
Street,  where  the  audience  knows  the  least,  and  so  is 
hardest  to  please.  Mr.  Thompson  has  not  been  able 
to  stand  the  strain.  He  has  fled  while  there  yet  is 
time. 

Ricorton  seizes  on  the  possibilities  at  once. 

"The  girls'  shoes  on  Sixth  Avenue  are  all  we  have  got 
to  get,"  he  says  excitedly  to  Sammy,  at  the  restaurant 
on  Forty-second  Street.  "The  hauling  of  the  scenery, 
enough  extra  to  pay  the  losses  on  the  tryout  time,  and 
then — if  we  got  good  booking,  we  would  make  some 
money!" 

In  Sammy's  mind  there  is  a  slight  recollection  of  that 
magnificent  profit  he  once  figured  out  in  plumbing. 

"Yes,  if!"  he  answers  gloomily. 

But  Ricorton  is  all  enthusiasm  now. 

"It  is  a  good  show,"  he  replies.  "Hagaman  and 
Matson  both  say  so.  All  it  needs  is  somebody  behind 
it  with  good  nerve  and  push." 

Nerve  and  push  seem  consonant,  someway,  with  the 
role  of  hero. 

"We've  got  that  all  right!"  replies  Sammy.  He  is 
beginning  to  get  excited,  himself,  at  the  prospect  of 
thus  breaking  into  the  theatrical  game  so  early. 

"Five  hundred  dollars  will  more  than  see  it  through," 
cries  Ricorton. 

His  lunch  is  quite  untasted.     He  sees  himself,  in 


96  THE  BALANCE 

several  years,  taking  only  first  nights  for  himself,  and 
sending  out  great  comic -opera  orchestras  from  New  York 
the  balance  of  the  time.  Somewhere  inside  him,  too,  is 
a  perfect  confidence  in  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  ability  to 
do  all  the  rest  that  goes  to  staging  and  producing  big 
shows.  Tappy  is  a  genius,  and  Ricorton  will  bank  his 
life  upon  the  statement. 

"I  don't  need  salary,"  he  cries  again.  "We'll  take 
the  thing  out  just  as  it  stands,  and  if  it  makes  a  hit, 
we'll  send  Thompson  a  check  for  what  he  has  put  in  it. 
It  is  us  or  nothing,  that's  why.  Two  days  and  this 
crowd  he  has  working  in  it  will  scatter  to  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent shows." 

His  enthusiasm  has  communicated  itself  to  Sammy, 
completely,  before  luncheon  is  over.  The  fate  of  the 
five  hundred  dollars  is  sealed. 

Thus  it  is  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  steps  into  Lyric 
Hall  the  next  day,  and  announces  that  he  has  taken 
over  "The  Honeymooners"  from  Mr.  Thompson.  He 
has  been  in  the  hall  almost  daily,  and  the  change  seems 
perfectly  natural.  I  do  not  think  that  the  Thespians 
ever  even  gave  the  thing  a  thought.  They  work  in  acts, 
but  do  not  purchase  them. 

With  Hagaman's  assistance  there  is  no  difficulty 
with  the  costumes  or  scenery,  save  that  the  backdrop 
costs  fifty  dollars  more  than  was  estimated.  Our 
Sammy,  however,  has  learned  from  Mr.  Pike  to  pay 
out  checks  without  a  quaver,  so  once  he  has  made  up 
his  mind,  he  does  not  hesitate.  He  is  started  now  on 
this,  with  the  finished  plumbing  business  and  an  opera 
complete  behind  him;  and  he  will  carry  this  thing 
through.  He  writes: 

"Carrie,  dearest,  perhaps  you  will  think  that  we  are  crazy " 

He  knew,  of  course,  though,  that  she  would  not! 

"but  we  have  taken  over  the  operetta  complete,  now,  and  I  am  the 
producer,  and  Ric  the  conductor.  It  is  the  chance  of  a  lifetime.  We 
are  going  to  try  it  out  down  on  Fourteenth  Street,  and  then  on  the  big 
time.  If  only  it  is  a  success!  I  am  so  busy,  these  days,  that  I 
can  hardly  get  time  to  write  you  anything  but  notes — there  are  so 


THE  BALANCE  97 

many  fine  edges  to  be  put  on  the  business  of  the  different  parts. 
Hagaman  is  going  to  bring  Willis  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theatre  down 
to  the  dress  rehearsal.  I  think  the  booking  will  be  easy.  We  have 
a  lead  who  is  very  fine.  I  wish  you  could  meet  her.  She  is  dif- 
ferent from  any  one  I  ever  knew — Ruby  Williams  is  her  name. 
She  will  stick  to  the  end,  even  if  half  salary  becomes  necessary.  I 
am  sorry  to  have  to  go — I  have  no  time  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
am  always  thinking  of  you — but  I  am!  Yours, 

"SAMMY. 

"P.S.  I  have  a  chance,  also,  to  write  a  playlet  for  Sylvia  Tre- 
maine,  the  'Betrayer*  star.  I  have  an  appointment  with  her  next 
week.  Needless  to  state,  I  will  have  to  persuade  her  that  I  can 
do  it  before  it  will  mean  much." 

I  think  Carrie  could  wish  for  a  little  more  of  Sammy,  a 
little  more  of  their  love  in  his  letter — but  he  is  busy,  of 
course — perhaps  is  winning  at  last.  It  almost  sounds 
as  if  he  were  getting  on  finely  in  New  York,  she  thinks, 
with  a  little  catch  in  her  throat  for  his  success.  He  ought 
to  have  won  from  the  very  beginning,  he  is  so  much 
more  gifted  than  the  others.  He  deserves  all  that  he 
can  get. 

She  sends  him  a  telegram,  also,  on  the  night  of  "The 
Honeymooners"  tryout  at  the  City  Theatre  on  Four- 
teenth Street — a  telegram  of  love  and  congratulation. 
She  would  have  given  all  she  possessed  to  have  been 
there  herself. 

That  night  at  the  City  Theatre!  There  were  few 
other  nights  in  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  experience  which 
stood  out  more  vividly. 

To  the  stolid  audience  which  filled  the  theatre,  I 
suppose  the  show  was  much  the  same.  For  Ricorton 
and  our  Sammy,  however,  it  was  a  night  of  mystery, 
suspense,  and  nervousness. 

Our  Sammy  has  just  forty-two  dollars  in  the  world  as 
he  stands  back  of  the  wings,  talking,  with  a  semblance 
of  lightness,  to  the  chorus  girls  and  men  who  are  crowd- 
ing around  him  for  their  last  instructions.  No  rehear- 
sal for  "The  Honeymooners"  this  morning;  there  are  too 
many  acts  on  the  bill  this  week,  and  the  pianist  and  leader 
is  disgruntled.  A  lightning  change  lady  artist  is 


98  THE  BALANCE 

singing  character  songs  ahead  of  them,  her  limited  time 
preventing  her  from  seeking  the  dressing-room  below 
the  stairs.  Her  last  change  will  be  the  signal  for  their 
act  to  gather,  S.  Sydney  Tappan  is  aware;  and  does  not 
realize  that  he  is  staring  eagerly  at  her,  as  she  tears  off 
her  Spanish  dress,  and  plunges  into  black  tights. 

"Fresh  guy!"  she  mutters,  as  she  runs  out  upon  the 
stage  again,  and  starts  her  last  song. 

It  is  the  signal! 

"Honeymooners,"  calls  the  red-faced  man.     "Next!" 

Down  in  the  musicians'  room,  beneath  the  stage, 
Ricorton  throws  away  his  cigarette,  and  unrolls  his 
score,  as  he  walks  through  the  little  runway  out  into 
the  pit,  and  smiles  around  upon  the  orchestra  men. 
They  have  never  read  this  music  before,  and  he  is  de- 
pendent upon  their  favour.  A  wrong  note  by  the  violin 
or  cornet,  and  Ruby's  best  song  can  be  ruined. 

"Regular  stuff,"  he  says  easily.  "Introduction, 
two  four,  then  till  ready,  chorus  twice — then  the 
verse  again,  and  straight  through  to  the  end!"  It  is 
his  first  experience,  but  he  is  a  real  musician,  and  knows 
that  he  can  keep  time.  "  Watch  my  head  for  the  cues — 
down  she  goes,  then  start." 

They  nod  wearily.  He  does  not  waste  time  talking, 
like  so  many  of  these  dubs  from  the  legit  who  think 
they  know  it  all.  And  he  will  play  the  piano,  and  give 
them  some  support,  instead  of  beating  with  a  stick. 
Enough  said — it  is  quarter  of  ten  now,  and  three  acts 
yet  to  come. 

It  is  as  the  music  starts,  and  Sammy  throws  the 
lights,  red  for  the  curtain,  changing  then  to  yellow 
overcast  by  violet  from  the  balcony,  until  the  spotlight 
comes  into  play  upon  the  duet — it  is  then  that  he  should 
be  thrilled  and  his  heart  stand  in  his  mouth.  But  he  is 
too  occupied  with  cues,  and  pushing  Jack  Bantry  on 
stage,  while  Ricorton,  down  in  the  pit,  pounds  G  sharp 
a  dozen  times  for  his  appearance,  to  feel  anything. 
Almost  before  he  knows  it,  the  final  chorus  is  being 
sung,  while  the  stage  manager  rages  because  the  act  has 


THE  BALANCE  99 

run  twenty-nine  minutes  instead  of  twenty-two — al- 
though the  curtain  has  risen  again  upon  it  with  actual 
waves  of  applause  and  stamps  of  approval  from  the 
gallery,  and  the  act  has  gotten  across  "big!"  It  has 
gotten  across  because  it  is  just  cheap  enough,  and  be- 
cause Ruby's  charms  have  captivated  most  of  the  men, 
while  Ricorton  has  held  the  thing  together  from  the  pit. 
Those  rounds  of  applause  mean  bookings. 

Hagaman  meets  S.  Sydney  Tappan  at  the  stage  door, 
with  Ricorton. 

"Immense!"  he  says.  "Three  days  at  the  New 
York,  then  Patterson  and  Brighton  Beach,  and  then 
Keith  or  the  Orpheum.  We'll  have  the  rest  of  the 
booking  agents  over  at  the  New  York,  including  the  Big 
Robber.  Boys,  she  is  going  to  do  business ! " 

They  will  break  even  for  two  weeks,  Hagaman  fig- 
ures, and  then,  unless  all  signs  fail,  the  profit  will  be 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week. 

One  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  apiece,  Sammy 
and  Ricorton  figure  at  the  Kaiser  Hof  that  night  at 
midnight,  with  Ruby,  flushed  with  excitement  and  re- 
lief, seated  opposite. 

"I've  got  fifty  dollars,"  she  says  excitedly.  "We'll 
live  on  that  for  two  weeks,  along  with  what  Tappy's 
got!" 

She  means  it,  does  Ruby.  She  is  as  glad  for  their 
success  as  they  are.  I  wonder  what  they  would  have 
ever  done  without  her  fifty  dollars  ? 

It  is  two  weeks  later  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  climbs 
the  stairs  to  the  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  room,  to 
find  two  letters  beneath  the  door — one  in  the  familiar 
handwriting  of  Carrie,  the  other  a  straight  large  scroll 
which  dwarfs  the  violet  envelope  it  covers. 

Who  is  it  from,  he  wonders,  as  he  looks  out  over  the 
line  of  tenements  that  back  up  against  his  window,  their 
outline  plain  against  the  night  sky,  their  rear  windows 
lighted  here  and  there,  making  glowing  patches  in  the 
inky  blackness  between  the  buildings. 

He  is  alone  to-night,  and  just  back  from  the  station 


100  THE  BALANCE 

where  he  has  said  good-bye  to  Ricorton  and  Ruby  and 
the  honeymooners.  They  have  gone  upon  the  Orph- 
eum  circuit  and  left  him  to  look  after  the  business  end 
in  Long  Acre  Square.  It  is  very  silent  in  this  room,  he 
realizes,  as  he  lights  the  gas,  and  the  black  night  and 
tenements  vanish  as  if  by  magic,  while  the  cracked 
mirror  and  cheap  beds  spring  into  view.  Nearly  as 
silent  as  Washington  Avenue  after  midnight,  he  thinks, 
when  the  street  lamps  shine  upon  the  pavement  be- 
neath the  elms;  as  silent  as  the  campus  in  Williamstown 
after  the  chapel  clock  has  boomed  the  stroke  of  one, 
and  the  last  car  to  North  Adams  has  gone  shrieking 
down  the  wooded  New  England  road;  as  silent  as  the 
front  room  on  Hawthorne  Street  of  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, with  old  Mr.  Tappan  asleep  in  the  morris  chair, 
the  old  cat  upon  his  knee;  as  silent  as  Paris  out  in 
Auteuil,  overlooking  the  convent  gardens,  when  the 
last  theatre-goers  have  come  home  from  the  Opera,  and 
the  leaves  sigh  in  the  night  breeze. 

He  opens  Carrie's  letter  first.     He  reads : 

"Sammy,  dearest,  I  am  all  excited  about  the  wonderful  suc- 
cess of  'The  Honeymooners,'  excited  and  so  pleased,  pleased, 
pleased!  It  hardly  seems  possible  that  it  can  be  true.  And  yet  I 
always  knew  you  would  succeed,  so  I  am  not  surprised.  I  can  only 
say,  I  told  you  so — and  ask,  when  are  you  coming  home  to  see  me? 
There  are  so  many  things  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about — and  letters 
are  so  queer  and  unsatisfactory.  It  doesn't  seem  as  if  we  had  had  a 
real  talk  in  ages.  I  want  to  see  you,  and  touch  you,  too,  and  make 
sure  you  are  real,  again.  This  is  such  a  lonely  way  to  live,  isn't  it? 
Write  and  tell  me  when  you  are  coming! 

"You  will  be  grieved  to  hear  that  you  are  no  longer  an  object  of 
interest  to  the  family.  They  do  not  know  what  you  are  doing,  and 
social  work  quite  has  the  floor  at  1200  Washington,  now.  If  I 
could  only  tell  you  all  about  it!  But  I  never  could,  in  a  letter. 
Father  thinks  because  I  have  so  much  is  the  best  reason  why  I 
should  not  care  about  doing  anything  for  others.  He  is  very  angry 
at  me  just  now.  The  latest  thing!  as  mother  calls  it — as  if  it  were 
some  kind  of  a  disease  that  broke  out  on  me.  It  is  because  I  sold 
my  electric  and  sent  the  money  to  Mrs.  Lewis.  I  cannot  see, 
however,  why  they  should  be  so  furious  when  it  was  really  mine. 
They  seem  to  think  that  the  things  they  give  me  are  theirs  just  the 
same  as  it  they  had  not  been  given  to  me  at  all.  Father  says  now 


THE  BALANCE  101 

he  will  never  give  me  anything  again — I  don't  know  enough  to 
have  things.  I  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  that  I  am  the  one  who 
has  to  walk,  not  he!  I  would  suggest  it,  if  I  dared 

"You  don't  know  how  strange  it  seems  without  you  here  any 
more.  I  shall  be  so  glad  when  we  can  do  everything  together. 
It  makes  me  feel  quite  mean  sometimes,  down  at  the  settlement,  to 
realize  that  I  have  you  and  am  so  happy,  when  so  many  people 
are  miserable.  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  life  is  not  fair  at  all. 

"I  cannot  wait,  now,  to  have  you  come  home.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  it  makes  me  feel  to  know  that  I  am  sure,  at  least,  of  you! 
There  are  no  dark  secrets  for  us  to  stumble  over,  anyway.  When 
are  you  coming?  With  all  my  love, 

"Your  own 

"CARRIE" 

A  long  time  he  sits  with  the  letter  in  his  hand. 
Carrie — she  sounds  quite  serious,  nowadays.  And  yet, 
he  can  still  see  little  traces  of  that  old  sense  of  humour. 
It  has  always  been  like  the  rest  of  her — rather  simple, 
and  straightforward.  If  only  he  can  go  home  soon. 
Melchester — yes,  it  still  is  home,  though  he  cannot  say 
why.  Well,  perhaps  he  can  go  soon  now,  as  soon  as  the 
booking  of  "The  Honeymooners"  is  more  complete. 

But  he  cannot  go  home  for  a  few  days  yet,  I  fear — 
days  which  will  lengthen  into  months  before  he  knows 
it;  and  when  he  does,  things  will  not  be  as  they  have  been 
till  now.  Truly,  life  is  a  going  on,  wherefore  it  is  better 
for  those  who  love  to  go  on  together,  lest  their  paths 
diverge.  He  will  know  that  he  cannot  go  when  he 
opens  the  violet  letter. 

It  is  from  Miss  Sylvia  Tremaine,  requesting  him  to 
call  and  see  her  to-morrow,  instead  of  next  week.  She 
wants  a  playlet,  and  wants  it  quickly! 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  WHICH  SAMMY  CHANGES  His   SPOTS,  AND  GOES 
HOME  TO  SHOW  THEM 

ENVIRONMENT,  so  the  scientists  have  been  telling  us 
for  these  many  years,  controls  life  to  a  great  extent . 
The  same  thing,  so  the  psychologists  assure  us,  affects 
the  growth  of  human  character.  Heredity  is  losing  its 
place  as  Exhibit  A,  and  environment  usurping  its  po- 
sition in  the  catalogue  of  excuses. 

If  this  is  so,  it  is  no  wonder  that  morality  is  a  good 
deal  a  matter  of  acquaintance  with  the  neighbours. 
Where  all  are  strangers,  morals  are  at  a  low  ebb. 
Character  runs  wild,  so  to  speak,  and  it  is  only  the  un- 
usual person  who  can  keep  his  course.  This  is  the 
danger  of  our  huge  cities  to  the  human  animal  and  his 
character. 

It  is  also  the  explanation  of  that  puzzle  which  has  been 
the  cause  of  so  much  endless  speculation:  how  could  the 
man  who  later  wrote  <(  Doctor  Paulding"  ever  have  been 
the  author  of  "The  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin?"  Well,  the 
mind  which  has  the  dramatic  quality  must  necessarily 
possess  the  chameleon's  ability  to  change  its  spots.  New 
York  and  Sylvia  Tremaine  first  changed  Sammy's. 

Let  us  look  in  at  Sylvia  Tremaine's  apartment,  on 
Thirty-fourth  Street,  and  see  the  first  faint  evidence  of 
the  changing  colours. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  looks  quite  different  than  when 
we  saw  him  two  months  ago,  though  in  just  what  way 
it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Two  months  of  good  in- 
come from  ''The  Honey mooners,"  these;  two  months 
passed  in  almost  daily  expectation  of  a  return  to  Mel- 
chester  and  Carrie,  but  with  that  dream  still  unrealized. 

102 


" '  Godfrey!     .     .     .     what  a  part!     The  Lady  in 
the  Lion  Skin,  eh?' ' 


THE  BALANCE  103 

The  business  is  a  risky  and  uncertain  one,  and  Miss 
Tremaine's  desire  for  a  playlet  must  be  satisfied  im- 
mediately, or  she  will  secure  some  one  else,  and  the  op- 
portunity will  be  lost.  "The  Honeymooners"  cannot  last 
forever,  and  this  has  been  Sammy's  first  chance  to  break 
into  the  game  of  playwriting. 

So  he  has  stayed  on  and  written  at  white  heat,  so  that 
the  dramatic  actress  of  "Betrayer"  fame  will' take  his 
work.  Just  enough  experience  in  vaudeville,  now,  to 
enable  him  to  do  it.  Dramatic,  and  quick!  Experience 
has  tempered  his  talent.  And  the  twenty-minute  sketch 
of  the  plain  young  girl  whom  the  devil  tempts  with  his  of- 
fer of  beauty — his  only  condition  a  box  of  pills  from  which 
she  must  eat  one  each  day,  with  the  knowledge,  however, 
that  among  the  thousands  there  is  a  poisoned  one — has 
been  a  great  hit. 

The  ability  of  Sylvia  Tremaine  for  character  acting 
is  shown  at  the  different  stages  of  the  girl's  career  as  a 
famous  beauty;  and  rises  to  its  climax  when,  old  and 
beautiful  no  longer,  she  has  but  two  pills  left  and  must 
choose,  with  the  knowledge  that  one  of  them  is  poisoned 
and  means  death — only  to  find,  when  all  is  done,  that 
there  has  been  no  poisoned  pill  at  all!  The  whole  hor- 
ror of  death,  which  has  ruined  her  outwardly  successful 
life,  a  grim  jest  of  the  devil's. 

Miss  Tremaine  has  scored  heavily  with  it,  and  as  he 
sits  in  her  drawing-room  this  morning,  our  Sammy  has 
been  called  into  consultation  regarding  a  three-act  play 
for  her,  to  be  put  on  when  her  vaudeville  engagement  is 
ended.  I  think  the  actress,  perhaps,  has  more  than 
half  an  idea  that  she  has  made  a  distinct  "find"  in  S. 
Sydney  Tappan. 

Radiant  in  a  negligee  which  shows  ofFher  bronze  hair, 
brilliant  with  health,  and  emphasizes  her  clear,  fine  com- 
plexion fading  into  pure  white  at  her  throat  and  arms, 
Sylvia  Tremaine  is  sitting  opposite  him,  across  the 
hearth,  curled  up  on  a  sofa,  her  brown,  silken  ankles 
visible  above  the  bronzed  slippers  which  harmonize 
with  her  costume. 


104  THE  BALANCE 

Vaudeville  necessitates  morning  calls,  and  it  is 
eleven-thirty. 

"A  part  like — like  an  enchantress,"  she  is  saying,  put- 
ting her  hands  behind  her  head,  the  sleeves  falling  away 
and  revealing  the  beauty  of  the  arms.  "An  enchantress 
who  enslaves  men,  fascinates,  bewitches  them,  makes 
them  lose  their  souls." 

She  is  at  the  age,  this  woman,  when  she  realizes  her 
charms  to  the  full,  and  is  resolved  to  take  advantage  of 
them  in  her  profession. 

"Why,  Elsie  Borden  has  only  a  back — and  she  is 
making  a  fortune  out  of  that  in  comic  opera!  I  ought 
to  put  Elsie  in  the  shade." 

"You  should,  indeed,"  agrees  Sammy  sincerely. 
She  is  a  beautiful  woman,  and  the  world  knows  it. 

She  looks  at  him  a  trifle  suspiciously,  however. 

"No  sarcasm,  Sydney,"  she  warns  him. 

He  is  a  handsome  youth,  this  Sydney  Tappan,  only 
about  twenty-six,  yet  she  is  not  always  certain  that  he  is 
not  making  fun  of  her.  He  is  not  very  impressionable 
to  feminine  charm,  she  fears. 

"New  York  is  different  from  the  rest  of  the  country," 
she  says  slowly.  "New  York  must  be  shocked,  must 
have  its  breath  taken  away.  I  want  to  be  daring,  oh, 
not  vulgar — I  want  to  suggest,  well — the  unutterable, 
and  yet  suggest  it  entrancingly,  so  that  women  will  be 
thrilled  in  spite  of  themselves  and  men  come  to  see  my 
play  a  dozen  times.  Do  you  think  you  can  do  it?" 

Sammy  stares  into  the  fire.  He  is  not  quite  certain 
what  she  means,  nor  how  he  can  produce  this  effect  for 
which  she  is  asking.  He  has  never  considered  the 
theatre  in  exactly  this  light  before. 

Sylvia  stands  upright. 

"  See ! "  she  cries,  casting  off  her  negligee, "  I  am  dressed 
exactly  as  much  as  for  a  ball.  Yet  how  daring  the 
effect  of  the  white  lingerie!  And  not  an  inch  of  me 
showing  that  a  ball  dress  would  not  show!  Suggestion, 
Sydney.  That  is  what  I  mean.  That  is  New  York. 
That  is  theatrical  success  here.  Take  it  another  way. 


THE  BALANCE  105 

See  my  lion  skin  rug  here.  Supposing  I  should  pin  up 
my  skirt — say,  fashionable  length,  and  throw  this  rug 
on  my  shoulders!" 

With  a  little  movement  she  cast  the  lion  skin  about 
her. 

"See  the  effect !"  she  says.  "Even  you  would  gasp 
if  I  should  cast  away  the  skin!  You  can  hardly  believe 
that  I  am  quite  fully  dressed  all  the  while.  Get  that  in 
literature,  Sydney,  in  a  p;ay  for  me,  and  you  are  made  in 
New  York/' 

Sammy  nods  his  head  rapidly. 

"Yes,"  he  says  thoughtfully.  "That  is  New  York 
right  enough.  I  can  see  it  in  the  streets,  in  the  plays,  in 
the  literature  for  sale." 

"  Exactly ! "  cries  Sylvia.  " Get  in  my  play  what  some 
of  the  novelists  have  gotten  in  their  society  novels,  and 
we  can  storm  New  York." 

"With  an  idea  in  it,  however,"  says  Sammy  ex- 
citedly. He  sees  what  she  means,  now.  "  Done  artisti- 
cally from  the  right  point  of  view,  with  a  fine  idea  back 
of  the  drama  to  excuse  it,  and  make  it  palatable." 

It  is  the  artist  in  him  struggling.  But  Sylvia  makes 
a  little  face. 

"Why,  the  idea  itself — it  must  be — why,  it  must  be 
quite  unutterable,  so  that  the  cafes  can  make  little  faces 
whenever  my  play  is  mentioned!"  she  cries. 

I  think  her  visualization  of  fame  in  the  cafes  of  New 
York  quells  that  artist  of  a  few  seconds  before  in  S. 
Sydney  Tappan. 

"I  see,  I  see!"  he  admits,  tramping  up  and  down  the 
room,  then  stopping  suddenly.  "But  the  rest  of  the 
country  ? " 

"New  York  first!"  says  Sylvia  contemptuously. 
"The  provinces  as  a  matter  of  course!" 

It  is  while  Sammy  is  thinking  that  she  bursts  out 
again,  a  moment  later. 

"A  woman  is  the  devil,  Sydney!"  she  cries.  "Think 
of  the  trouble  she  can  cause,  if  she  realizes  her  power 
over  the  susceptibility  of  men.  That  is  New  York — sex 


106  THE  BALANCE 

appeal  capitalized  in  a  thousand  ways!  Give  me  the 
part  of  a  woman  with  a  devilish  desire  to  flirt,  and  make 
monkeys  out  of  the  men  she  meets — never  seeing,  in  her 
conceit,  that  others  can  play  at  the  same  game,  and  that 
each  conquest  she  makes  soils  her  also;  until,  when  she 
finally  falls  in  love,  the  man's  sense  of  delicacy — call  it 
what  you  will — is  revolted,  and  he  goes  away  and 
leaves  her  stranded  at  the  last!  Let  me  gradually  be- 
come less  beautiful,  more  sensual,  as  I  go  on,  until  in  the 

last  act  I  am  what  my  soul  has  always  been,  a  beast  of 

i '' 
prey! 

"Godfrey!"  exclaims  Sammy,  thrilled  with  the  pos- 
sibilities. "What  a  part!  With  a  plot  thrown  in  for 
good  measure.  The  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin,  eh?" 

Sylvia's  eyes  shine. 

"Splendid!"  she  cries.  "I'll  help  you  on  her  con- 
quests, Sydney — if  you  find  you  need  any." 

She  springs  up  enthusiastically. 

"A  flirt  even  to  my  own  butler!  No  one  too  low  for 
me  to  stoop  to,  at  the  last!'* 

"Magnificently  horrible!"  shudders  Sammy  pleas- 
antly. 

"And  yet,"  she  continues,  stretching  out  her  arms  to 
him,  "on  the  outside  so  tender,  so  appealing,  so  alluring 
that  no  one  can  resist  liking  me,  no  man  withstand  my 
advances!" 

I  have  always  thought  it  was  the  doorbell  which  saved 
our  Sammy  that  morning.  He  had  almost  forgotten, 
by  that  time,  that  she  was  acting,  showing  him  his  new 
heroine,  in  lingerie. 

"Mrs.  Grundy!"  she  exclaims,  scrambling  into  her 
neglected  negligee.  "What  a  scandal  there  will  be  if 
some  one  sees  me!  That  I  am  showing  you  our  heroine 
— not  for  Dame  Scandal!" 

She  laughs,  as  S.  Sydney  Tappan  recovers  his  control. 
What  a  fool  he  is,  he  thinks! 

"I  wouldn't  be  Hartmann  for  a  million!"  he  says 
humorously.  Hartmann  is  her  leading  man,  usually. 
"I  couldn't  stand  the  strain!" 


THE  BALANCE  107 

She  laughs. 

"It  is  quite  different,  with  two  thousand  people  look- 
ing on,"  she  answers. 

Is  there  a  girl  at  home,  she  wonders?  Probably. 
There  usually  is. 

I  think  she  sighs  a  little  as  S.  Sydney  Tappan  takes 
his  leave  from  the  apartment  on  Thirty-fourth  Street 
that  noon.  A  clever  woman,  Sylvia  Tremaine,  with 
eyes  to  see  with  and  but  one  God,  applause.  This 
young  fellow  has  the  ability,  she  is  certain,  to  construct 
for  her  a  vehicle  which  will  fit  her  ability  like  the  paper 
on  the  wall.  It  is  her  part  to  see  that  over  the  construc- 
tion is  cast  the  glamour  of  suggestion,  the  little  trick 
of  double  meaning  which  will  make  the  piece  a  delicate 
wisp  of  diablerie,  with  always  a  daring  reality  be- 
neath. What  a  fool  she  is,  to  wish,  even  for  a  moment, 
that  she  herself  could  be  again  some  one's  "girl  at 
home." 

Our  Sammy's  spots  are  visibly  different  as  he  goes 
down  the  street.  They  are  taking  on  the  hue  of  New 
York's  atmosphere,  as  interpreted  by  Sylvia  Tremaine — 
interpreted,  perhaps,  correctly,  too.  I  am  quite  certain 
he  would  never  have  written  a  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin," 
had  his  life  been  confined  to  Melchester.  Perhaps  it  is 
only  another  manifestation,  however,  of  the  power  of 
the  lodestone  of  success.  He  must  write  plays  to  make 
money;  that  is  the  prime  requisite.  If  he  can  make  it  by 
poisoning  the  mind  of  a  nation — why,  he  is  not  far  be- 
hind a  great  many  of  those  to  whom  his  world  looks  up! 
It  is  an  irony,  that,  like  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  some  of 
the  greatest  of  our  varied  successes  are  but  handing  us 
the  pistol. 

I  wonder,  however,  does  our  Sammy  realize,  to-day, 
that  these  steps  he  is  taking  are  leading  him,  for  the 
first  time,  a  little  away  from  that  path  which  he  and 
Carrie  have  trod  so  far  together?  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
is  not  quite  the  same  as  when  he  first  came  to  New 
York  a  few  months  ago.  .  .  . 

Carrie's  letters,  too,  seemed  to  be  altering  during 


108  THE  BALANCE 

these  months,  reflecting  the  changes  in  her  mind.     She 
was  growing  older.      She  wrote: 


"Sammy,  dearest,  I  have  become  a  real  volunteer  worker  in 
the  Settlement!  It  is  so  much  the  most  important  thing  that 
has  happened  to  me  in  some  time  that  I  feel  that  I  must  write 
and  tell  you  about  it.  It  is  just  a  house,  of  course,  but  so  intensely 
interesting!  It  is  real  life,  I  think.  If  I  could  only  be  like  Mrs. 
Lewis  I  should  die  happy.  I  cannot  imagine  why  father  and  mother 
do  not  see  the  romance  and  bravery  of  her  life. 

"I  tried  to  tell  father  about  it  all,  but  he  just  laughs  at  me.  He 
thinks  it  is  all  quite  silly.  I  think  he  only  sees  the  small  side  of  the 
great  work  the  Settlements  are  doing.  All  that  he  sees  is  a  few 
girls  teaching  foreign  women  our  ways  of  housekeeping,  and  sew- 
ing, and  dressmaking.  I  wonder  doesn't  he  realize  that  they  all 
have  children,  too?  He  says  they  can  all  live  on  greens  and  old 
bread,  and  don't  need  much  wages  now,  but  if  we  fool  women  keep 
on  we'll  get  them  all  dissatisfied. 

"I  think  I  really  like  it  so  much  because  it  isn't  charity.  It  seems 
to  me  like  really  helping  them.  At  home,  it  is  just  the  same  as 
it  has  always  been  with  everything  I  have  ever  wanted  to  do.  I 
am  afraid  we  will  never  understand  each  other.  It  is  one  reason 
why  I  am  so  glad  that  I  have  you  to  believe  in — and  to  under- 
stand me. 

"The  family  are  beginning  to  wonder  again  if  everything  is  over 
between  you  and  me,  after  all.  The  news  of  some  of  your  suc- 
cess has  gotten  to  town,  wonderfully  mangled  and  garbled,  of 
course,  but  still  recognizable  as  success.  I  do  not  think,  however, 
they  are  ever  going  to  say  anything  more.  I  am  so  glad  that  I 
could  earn  my  own  living  in  the  Settlement  if  necessary.  Mrs. 
Lewis  told  me  yesterday  she  would  always  take  me  if  I  would  come. 
You  have  no  idea  how  differently  it  makes  me,  or  any  girl,  feel. 
It  just  makes  nobodys  out  of  us,  to  have  to  sell  our  characters  for 
food  and  dress. 

"I  am  holding  my  thumbs  waiting  to  hear  how  you  are  coming 
out  with  the  play  for  Miss  Tremame.  I  wish  so  much  she  had 

flayed  the  devil  sketch  through  here,  instead  of  just  in  New  York, 
would  like  so  much  to  have  seen  it — the  S.  Sydney  Tappan, 
author,  on  the  programme,  must  have  been  grand! 

"I  realize  how  much  it  means  for  both  of  us  that  you  stay  on 
in  New  York  until  you  have  made  a  little  place  for  yourself  in  the 
theatrical  world.  You  don't  know  how  thrilling  it  is  to  me  to  know 
that  you  are  succeeding.  If  only  you  could  get  Miss  Tremaine's 
first  night  here  in  Melchester! 

"It  seems  ages  since  I  have  seen  you.  I  know  I  should  be 
thankful  for  your  success,  and  yet — the  future  cannot  always 


THE  BALANCE  109 

console  us,  can  it?  I  wonder  will  you  like  me  as  well  as  ever  when 
you  do  come  home!  Still,  there  are  no  frightful  changes.  I  think 
I  have  gained  a  pound! 

"Always  your 

"CARRIE." 

A  week  later  she  wrote  him  again: 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  been  put  up  at  the  Lambs'  Club!  That 
Mr.  Hartmann  must  be  very  nice.  It  will  be  a  great  help,  I  sup- 
pose, knowing  all  those  people.  I  know  there  is  a  great  person  in 
you  some  place,  Sammy,  and  perhaps  this  is  the  beginning.  I  only 
hope  I  can  be  worthy  of  you,  and  be  the  kind  of  wife  a  man  in  your 

Eosition  should  have.  How  much  depends  upon  the  woman! 
can  see  it  every  day  in  Melchester.  I  think,  too,  I  am  beginning 
to  hate  material  things.  I  can  almost  see  you  smile.  We  will 
never  have  much  to  hate,  I  suppose!  I  can't  help  it.  It  seems  as 
if  it  were  plainer  to  me  every  day  that  a  common  ideal,  and  aspira- 
tion, is  the  only  thing  worth  striving  for — all  the  rest  just  a  means  of 
rilling  up  unhappy  hours. 

"I  am  consumed  with  curiosity  to  know  how  father  and  mother 
will  act  when  you  come  to  call!  A  sense  of  humour — they  haven't 
it,  I  am  afraid,  and  for  that  reason,  I  suppose,  dread  the  day. 

"But  I  don't! 

"Please,  it  will  be  very  soon  now,  won't  it? 

"CARRIE. 

"P.  S.  Freddie  Halton  is  still  calling  on  me  at  impossible  hours, 
though  I  have  told  him  frankly  about  you,  and  what  you  mean  to 
me.  I  can't  refuse  to  see  him,  however — can  you  imagine  the  fuss 
if  I  did!  They  say  Dorothy  and  Asa  are  engaged,  too,  but  I  am 
not  sure.  She  has  been  on  the  verge  with  so  many!  I  wonder, 
am  I  mean?" 

It  is  six  weeks  after  the  finished  draft  of  the  Lady  in 
the  Lion  Skin  has  been  taken  to  the  apartment  on 
Thirty-fourth  Street  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  calls  for 
Sylvia  Tremaine  to  take  her  to  luncheon  at  the  Ritz.  All 
the  good  effect  of  that  lesson  in  plumbing  appears  to 
have  been  wasted  if  we  can  judge  by  the  confidence  with 
which  he  steps  into  the  elevator  this  November  morning. 
Has  this  gentleman  in  the  correct  tailor-made  suit  ever 
made  a  mistake? 

There  is  one  good  result,  however,  though  it  is  not 
visible  upon  the  surface.  He  has  written  and  finished 
completely  in  three  months  a  play  in  three  acts.  S. 


110  THE  BALANCE 

Sydney  Tappan  has  not  stepped  out  of  his  room  during 
all  that  time,  except  to  consult  Miss  Tremaine.  He  has 
not  even  had  time  in  which  to  move.  Ricorton's 
valises  still  repose  in  the  far  corner  of  the  Twenty-ninth 
Street  room,  and  the  Tappan  trunk  still  hides  in  the 
closet.  New  York  calls  her  favourites  in  terms  that 
admit  of  no  dallying  by  the  way. 

To-day,  however,  he  knows  that  the  strain  is  over  so 
far  as  the  actual  writing  goes.  The  play  has  emerged 
and  is  good.  Rehearsal  is  going  on,  and  daily  lunch  at 
the  Lambs'  Club  is  a  usual  thing.  Whatever  Sylvia 
Tremaine  chooses  her  managers  know  will  succeed;  so, 
beyond  giving  their  approval,  Mr.  Friedman,  the  work- 
ing director,  has  had  little  to  say.  He  has  read  all  the 
play  in  the  first  draft,  and,  with  the  exception  of  Hart- 
mann,  has  chosen  the  cast.  Miss  Tremaine  will  do  all 
the  rest.  She  will  open  as  usual  on  December  ist,  at  the 
Players'  Theatre,  just  off  Broadway,  although  the  try- 
outs  are  not  yet  arranged. 

This  is  one  of  the  things  on  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  mind 
as  he  waits  for  Sylvia  to  appear.  She  does  not  keep  him 
waiting  long. 

"Where  shall  we  lunch,  Tappy?"  she  asks  gayly,  as 
she  comes  from  her  room.  She  is  a  radiant  vision  in 
dark-blue  silk,  with  two  old-fashioned  wide  stripes  down 
the  front  of  her  dress,  and  on  her  hair  some  kind  of  a 
velvet  creation. 

"The  Ritz,"  says  Sammy.  She  is  one  of  the  most 
ravishing  women  he  has  ever  seen. 

"Beautiful  Tappy!"  she  cries,  clapping  her  hands. 
"Your  tie  is  a  triumph !"  She  seems  to  have  preserved, 
miraculously,  the  enthusiasm  of  youth. 

"I  should  have  torn  it  off  in  the  face  of  all  Fifth 
Avenue,  had  it  offended,"  replies  Sammy  gallantly. 

He  is  experiencing  a  certain  very  pleasurable  sensa- 
tion in  thus  escorting  this  beautiful  woman  to  the  Ritz, 
where  he  knows  all  eyes  will  be  turned  enviously  upon 
him.  Sylvia  Tremaine  is,  perhaps,  the  most  widely 
known  woman  in  New  York  this  season. 


THE  BALANCE  111 

"Are  you  prepared  to  make  love  to  me  all  through 
luncheon,  Tappy?"  she  says  in  the  taxi.  "You  are 
such  a  poor  victim  that  I  am  afraid  you  won't  show  it. 
That  is  the  first  rule,  when  you  lunch  with  me  at  the 
Ritz;  gaze  adoringly  into  my  eyes !  All  my  playwrights 
have  fallen  in  love  with  me,  and  I  know  Friedy's  press 
agent  isn't  disposed  to  let  you  off!" 

"I  don't  care  to  be  let  off,"  replies  Sammy  lightly. 
"I  look  on  you  as  a  liberal  dramatic  education.  If  it 
were  not  for  my  innate  politeness  I  would  keep  out  my 
notebook  all  the  time  you  talk!" 

"Oh,  but  you  can't  mean  that!"  she  cries  reproach- 
fully. "I  never  use  my  friends." 

"You  mean,  you  don't  admit  it,"  he  answers.  "What 
emotion,  for  instance,  are  you  trying  out  on  me  just 
now,  with  the  trembling  lip  and  tragic  eye  ?" 

"Why,  reproach,  of  course!"  she  says  tragically. 
"  Didn't  you  ever  make  faces  for  amusement,  when  you 
were  a  child?" 

"I  have  heard,"  says  Sammy  cruelly,  "that  they  put 
lines  in  your  face." 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  cries.  "Mean  Tappy!  I  don't  look 
twenty-five." 

He  considers  her  seriously. 

"No,"  he  says,  "you  don't!" 

"And  I  am  not  fat!  See  my  ankle,  Tappy!  It  doesn't 
bulge."  She  shudders.  "I  won't  be  thirty  and  podgy!" 

"You  will  be  very  thin,  really  scrawny,"  answers 
Sammy  slowly.  "I  can  see  you  now — with  difficulty, 
of  course — playing  old  maid  parts " 

"Now,  you  are  really  mean,  Sydney,"  Sylvia  says 
hotly.  "I  shall  never  play  such  parts.  When  I 
am  fifty  I  shall  do  Diving  Venus  things,  and  entrance 
old  drummers  in  clammy  bathing  suits!" 

"Will  the  management  let  drummers  in  all  wet?" 
Sammy  murmurs. 

She  looks  at  him  reproachfully. 

"I  never  thought  you  would  be  guilty  of  that  style 
of  humour,"  she  says  dismally. 


112  THE  BALANCE 

"I  do  it  for  exercise,"  answers  Sammy. 

"Please  reserve  it  for  some  other  time,  then,"  she 
says.  "They  will  certainly  put  you  out  of  the  Ritz  if 
they  hear  you  making  such  remarks." 

"The  chauffeur  thinks  you  are  crazy,"  remarks 
Sammy.  "He  has  turned  around  twice,  already. 
Once  more,  and  he  will  dash  our  brains  out  on  some 
one's  front  steps." 

"He  thinks  I  am  adorable,"  she  says  modestly. 
"He  as  good  as  said  so  when  I  got  in." 

"They  should  have  lady  chauffeurs,  anyway,"  sug- 
gests Sammy.  "Then  I,  no  doubt,  would  travel 
free." 

"Your  wife  at  the  wheel?"  murmurs  Sylvia. 

"Perhaps,"  says  Sammy  hardily. 

Sylvia  claps  her  hands. 

"And  all  the  babies  inside!" 

"It's  better  than  walking!' 

"Promise  me,  Sydney,  you  will  never  come  to  call  on 
me  with  the  babies!" 

"You  will  beg  for  one  to  talk  to  when  you  are  sixty," 
returns  Sammy. 

But  Sylvia  tosses  her  head.  Perhaps  she  feels  he 
is  right. 

"They  will  cry  all  through  the  last  act,"  she  says 
wickedly,  "when  you  come  to  see  me  at  the  Players, 
and  their  faces  will  be  very  dirty.  And  you  will  see 
me  inside  Rector's  as  you  drag  them  home,  yelling,  in 
the  subway;  all  the  way  to  the  flat." 

Sammy  shakes  his  head. 

"I  shall  never  yell,"  he  says. 

Sylvia  disregards  him. 

"The  babies  will." 

"Not  mine!" 

"I  can  hear  them,"  she  says  cruelly.  "  Some  of  them 
with  grand  opera  lungs." 

"I  will  bring  them  every  night  to  the  Players  then," 
Sammy  counters  brightly.  "A  treat  for  everybody 
who  does  not  like  your  play!" 


THE  BALANCE  113 

It  is  as  they  alight  and  go  into  the  Ritz  that  Sylvia 
refers  to  the  subject  again. 

"It's  the  only  place  you  still  show  your  provincial- 
ism, Sydney,"  she  says,  then,  half  in  earnest.  "Those 
babies!" 

"And  it's  the  only  place  you  have  begun  to  show  your 
worldliness,"  Sammy  replies. 

She  looks  him  over  carefully  as  they  sit  down. 

"Otherwise,  you  are  a  real  New  Yorker." 

"And  you  quite  human,"  returns  Sammy  un- 
daunted. 

"I  would  like  to  see  your  Carrie,"  says  Sylvia  earn- 
estly. "She  must  be  some  one  quite  unusual.  Lasting 
love  isn't  found  every  day,  Sydney.  I  wonder  if  you 
realize  how  lucky  you  are  ?" 

Sammy  glances  at  her  keenly. 

"  Making  fun  ? "  he  queries. 

"Not  at  all,  Sydney — oh!  Make  love  to  me  in- 
stantly! Here  are  my  gloves — a  lingering  look,  yes, 
that's  it!"  She  leans  forward  and  whispers  a  little  to 
him.  "There  he  is — that  is  old  Calder  over  there.  He 
is  always  giving  me  a  little  sentimental  puff.  Million- 
aire from  Spokane  leaping  from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
at  midnight  all  for  love  of  the  beautiful  Sylvia  Tre- 
maine!  And  then  a  two-page  article  on  famous  idiots 
of  history."  She  sighs.  "I  think  the  only  way  to  get  a 
real  man,  after  thirty,  is  to  break  up  some  happy  home." 

"Please  spare  mine,"  says  Sammy  gayly. 

He  is  very  sure  that  he  is  about  to  have  one. 

"Perhaps  I  have  seen  too  much  of  the  world,"  Sylvia 
says  seriously.  "And  I  see  only  the  awful  conse- 
quences. The  trouble  is  there  are  two  parties  to  the 
thing,  and  it  always  seems  as  if  one  does  not  measure 
up  when  the  test  comes — and  the  test  always  does  come. 
And  then,  unhappiness  and  disaster!  Besides,  some  men 
and  women  should  never  marry.  They  have  no  stabil- 
ity. I  might  marry  you  to-day,  and  run  off  with  Hart- 
mann  to-morrow.  You  have  no  idea  how  nice  Hart- 
mann  is  at  times." 


114  THE  BALANCE 

She  contemplates  Hartmann's  attractions  as  they 
eat. 

"Listen,"  says  Sammy.  "Do  something  for  me, 
will  you?" 

"Anything,  except  those  babies!"  Sylvia  smiles. 

"Have  the  tryout  night  up  in  Melchester!" 

Sylvia's  face  lights  up. 

"Before  the  girl  and  her  stodgy  old  family  and  the 
old  home  knockers  club!  Splendid!  We  must  ar- 
range it,  if  possible,  Sydney.  Why,  it  will  be  better 
than  the  play." 

She  thinks  a  moment. 

"There  is  no  reason  why  we  can't,  unless  the  date  is 
filled.  I  always  draw  in  Melchester.  And  the  stage 
man  there  is  a  dear!  I  love  him.  He  weighs  three 
hundred  and  ten.  It's  just  like  an  inspiration  to  see 
him  move  himself  around.  Such  will  power  and  char- 
acter! Honestly,  Sydney,  it's  just  like  seeing  Mohamet 
move  that  mountain." 

Her  eyes  are  sparkling.  It  appeals  to  her,  this  old 
home  drama  as  she  expresses  it.  It  will  start  the  play 
off  in  an  interesting  way.  And  then,  too,  the  papers 
should  be  very  kind  indeed ! 

On  the  way  back  to  the  theatre,  her  mood  changes. 

"I  am  getting  old,  Sydney.  I  am  beginning  to  play 
the  fairy  grandmother — or  was  it  godmother?  I  don't 
know — but  it  is  very  sad,  anyway." 

"Nonsense,"  retorts  Sammy.  "Youth  is  just  a 
point  of  view!" 

"But  you  can't  see  that  in  your  mirror,"  she  says 
dolefully.  "No,  I  am  old  and  gray  and  playing  the  part 
of  a  disagreeable  old  harpy!  Carrie  will  hate  me — and 
then  I  can't  see  you  any  more." 

Then  she  brightens. 

"At  least,"  she  says  gayly,  "I  won't  have  to  see  the 
babies  in  that  case!" 

And  she  runs  into  the  theatre  while  Sammy  dis- 
misses the  taxi. 

Rehearsals  are  well  along  on  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion 


THE  BALANCE  115 

Skin,"  and  every  one  in  the  cast  is  quite  certain  that  it 
will  be  a  success.  Engagements  with  Sylvia  Tremaine 
can  almost  be  considered  cash  in  advance;  and,  though 
they  have  never  heard  before  of  this  S.  Sydney  Tappan, 
they  are  quite  positive  that  he  has  caught,  somehow,  the 
peculiar  touch  which  spells  a  Broadway  success.  There 
has  been  a  great  deal  of  changing,  and  some  protests 
from  the  author,  but  Miss  Tremaine  has  seemed  to 
carry  her  point  in  most  cases,  so  that  the  show  moves 
along  in  good  style,  now. 

To  Sammy,  it  has  all  had  the  semblance  of  a  dream, 
a  figment  of  imagination.  There  are  times  when  he 
cannot  realize  that  it  is  really  he  who  has  this  "Lady  in 
the  Lion  Skin"  in  rehearsal — with  a  sure  production,  and 
success  ahead.  Unless  something  very  unforeseen  oc- 
curs, it  can  hardly  help  running  for  a  season,  once 
Friedman  and  the  firm  pass  on  it,  and  it  goes  out  on  the 
boards. 

In  the  language  of  the  stage  director,  it  will  knock 
'em  dead !  Particularly  the  scene  where  the  lady  in  the 
lion  skin  meets  the  man  she  loves,  and  after  using  all  her 
wiles  to  lure  him  on,  finally  casts  aside  the  lion  skin — 
amidst  the  gasps  of  the  audience — and  steps  forth  in  her 
Palm  Beach  bathing  suit  for  a  swim  in  the  ocean  outside 
the  cottage.  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  written  it  so  that 
the  lady  picks  up  the  lion  skin  in  full  view  of  the  audi- 
ence, and  it  is,  presumably,  only  the  unfortunate  gen- 
tleman upon  the  stage  who  is  deceived. 

It  is  just  before  the  dress  rehearsal,  however,  that 
Sylvia  persuades  him  to  change  it,  while  he  is  waiting 
for  her  in  her  apartment. 

"Oh,  I  have  a  wonderful  idea  for  that  lion  skin  scene, 
Sydney,"  she  has  called  to  him  from  her  boudoir  where 
she  is  dressing. 

"What  is  that?"  asks  Sammy,  idly  turning  the  pages 
of  a  magazine,  and  looking  at  the  pictures  of  theatrical 
celebrities.  Will  he  be  among  them  soon,  he  wonders? 

"Wait,"  she  says.  "I  will  put  on  that  bathing  suit, 
and  show  you." 


116  THE  BALANCE 

A  moment  later  she  is  out,  dragging  the  lion  skin  be- 
hind her. 

"These  bronze  slippers  don't  add  to  the  effect,  do 
they?"  she  says,  ruefully,  gazing  down  at  the  slippers 
she  has  put  on.  "I  suppose  I  will  have  to  play  it 
without  them,  though  I  hate  the  dust  of  the  stage " 

"Good  heavens!"  says  Sammy,  aghast.  "It  is 
really  going  to  be  fierce." 

It  is  the  first  time  she  has  dressed  this  scene,  and  the 
effect  of  her  low-cut  bronze  silk  bathing  suit  is  startling. 

"This  is  the  idea,"  she  says.  "Instead  of  picking  up 
the  skin  as  Fenwick  comes  in,  and  throwing  it  around 
me,  like  this" — and  she  suits  the  action  to  the  word — • 
"supposing  we  arrange  it  like  this " 

Sammy  is  really  startled.  The  shock  now  to  an  au- 
dience of  this  creature  in  the  revealing  bathing  suit 
will  be  quite  enough.  What  will  she  suggest  to  heighten 
it?  But  Sylvia  does  not  notice,  and  goes  on. 

"Suppose,  in  the  show,  I  have  two  of  these  bathing 
suits,  one  on,  and  the  other  in  my  hand.  Suppose,  too, 
this  screen  here  is  the  Japanese  screen  in  the  cottage 
scene.  I'll  place  it  here  beside  the  fireplace  so  that 
I  can  get  behind  it.  You  see  what  the  inference  will 
be,  Sydney,  as  I  come  in  with  the  other  suit  in  my  hand  ? 
Then,  I  go  to  the  screen,  and  when  I  am  behind  it,  I 
take  the  dressing  gown  like  this " 

She  walks  behind  the  screen  and  hangs  the  morning 
gown  over  the  top,  while  she  looks  out  from  one  side. 

"I  am  looking  out  now,  on  account  of  the  noise  of 
Fenwick  at  the  door,  at  the  same  time  giving  the  dress- 
ing gown  enough  push  to  make  it  fall  on  the  floor  out- 
side, in  view  of  the  audience,  where  I  can't  get  it  with- 
out coming  put — and  the  inference,  of  course,  is  that 
I  just  took  it  off  before  putting  on  my  bathing  suit, 
and  so  have  nothing  on  at  all.  You  see  the  idea  ?  Then 
I  reach  out,  like  this '' 

She  reaches  out  toward  the  lion  skin,  and  draws  it 
slowly  behind  the  screen  beside  the  fireplace. 

"Then  Fenwick  hears  me,  and  comes  slowly  toward 


THE  BALANCE  117 

me  saying,  hoarsely,  'Mimi!' — and  I  step  out,  and  back 
a  little,  with  the  lion  skin  wrapped  around  me,  too,  like 
this- 

And  Sylvia  steps  out  from  behind  the  screen  with  the 
lion  skin  wrapped  around  her,  the  delicate  pallor  of 
her  smooth  young  shoulders  above,  below  her  slim 
ankles  and  feet,  and  across  the  lion  skin  her  round 
white  arms. 

"You  see,  the  inference  is  that  I  haven't  had  time 
to  put  on  the  bathing  suit  at  all,  and  just  have  the  lion 
skin  around  me.  Then  as  Fenwick  says  'Good  God,' 
and  takes  a  step  toward  me,  I  tear  away,  and  fling 
away  the  lion  skin  like  this " 

She  suits  the  action  to  the  word. 

"And  stand  staring  haughtily  at  him,  before  I  walk 
out  to  the  beach.  Won't  that  be  the  last  word,  Syd- 
ney? See  the  possibilities!  Just  one  gasp  as  1  throw 
it  away — and  perfectly  all  right  all  the  time.  Isn't 
that  much  better?" 

She  curls  up  on  the  sofa. 

"It  will  be  all  right,"  says  Sammy  still  aghast.  "If 
there  is  anybody  left  in  the  theatre  to  see  it." 

"They'll  be  crowding  in  the  doors!"  says  Sylvia 
calmly.  "This  is  what  New  York  wants.  Why, 
they'll  be  disappointed  because  I  even  have  on  the 
bathing  suit  beneath." 

"Well,"  says  Sammy,  "you  might  pretty  near  as 
well  not,  for  all  it  leaves  to  the  imagination." 

"Now,  don't  be  fussy,  Sydney,"  she  answers.  "It's 
the  latest  thing  from  Altman's,  not  one  bit  altered  or 
different  than  you'll  see  at  all  the  beaches  next  summer. 
None  of  them  have  stockings,  and  this  one  is  much 
better  than  lots  of  the  others.  It  is  your  evil  mind!" 

Sammy  reddens  slightly.     Sylvia  claps  her  hands. 

"Shall  I  make  love  to  you,  Sydney?  In  my  bathing 
suit?;' 

"I'll  get  my  hat  if  you  do,"  retorts  Sammy. 

"Well,"  she  answers,  "it  is  time  we  were  going, 
anyway.  That  theatre!  I  am  tired  of  it  already,  and 


118  THE  BALANCE 

the  season  hasn't  begun.  And  I  suppose  I  am  selling 
my  privacy  for  money." 

She  stands  before  him  with  the  dressing  gown  on 
her  arm,  in  her  eyes  an  odd  look. 

"When  two  hundred  thousand  people  see  me  like 
this,  it  is  no  wonder  that  no  one  man  wants  me.  But  it  is 
success,  Sydney,  success  in  New  York  for  me!  And 
for  it,  I  sell  them  the  sight  of  myself." 

She  laughs. 

"Or,  rather,  the  expectation  of  it.  For  they  are 
stung,  Sydney,  stung!  And  I  get  success  just  the 
same." 

And  she  goes  off  to  dress.  A  clever  woman, 
Sylvia  Tremame,  though  without  any  principle 
save  that  of  succeeding.  Her  brains  have  kept  her 
from  sinking  into  the  sensual  mass  of  New  York. 
Her  head  is  level,  and  she  knows  enough  to  exploit 
her  audiences  without  mercy  or  conscience.  It  is 
only  now  and  then  that  uneasy  doubt  makes  her  con- 
science stir  in  its  cocoon.  A  person  of  genius,  Miss 
Tremaine,  bent  crooked  by  civilization  since  child- 
hood. For  her  both  Exhibits  A  and  B  can  be  sum- 
moned. Her  parents  were  actors  and  she  has  been 
left  to  bring  herself  up  in  New  York.  The  catalogue 
of  excuses  can  be  thus  called  into  play. 

There  is  but  one  regret  in  Sammy's  mind  as  he  packs 
his  things  the  next  afternoon  on  West  Twenty-ninth 
Street.  But  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  Sylvia.  It  is 
for  Ricorton. 

"If  Ric  were  only  here  to  see  the  first  night,"  he 
thinks.  Ric!  He  feels  for  the  absent  musician  the 
affection  a  soldier  might  have  for  his  comrade  of  the 
campfires.  Success  seems  to  have  crowned  their 
efforts  without  a  struggle  so  far.  It  hardly  seems 
possible  that  so  few  months  have  passed;  and  Ricorton 
is  already  directing  orchestras,  and  he  himself  is  about 
to  blossom  forth  as  a  playwright.  The  last  rehearsal 
in  New  York  is  over,  and  the  Company  is  leaving  for 
Melchester  on  the  midnight.  Sylvia  Tremaine  has 


THE  BALANCE  119 

gone  already,  so  that  she  will  not  have  to  sleep  upon  a 
train,  but  can  get  her  rest  in  the  hotel  at  Melchester. 
But  Ricorton  is  far  from  Melchester  and  New  York. 
His  last  letter  has  been  from  the  Frederick  Hotel  in 
St.  Paul,  and  he  is  leaving  for  the  Coast  trip  on  the 
Orpheum.  He  has  written: 

"Dear  Tappy,  have  been  having  the  one  real  time  of  .my  life. 
The  trip,  so  far,  could  not  have  been  better.  I  can  see  behind  me 
only  one  long  succession  of  splendid  restaurants — ahead  of  me  a 
vista  of  still  more  restaurants,  all  good!  I  am  in  my  glory.  I 
know  you  object  to  letters  concerned  principally  with  food,  so  I 
shall  detail  our  feasts.  I  can  only  recommend  to  you,  when  you 
have  made  your  million,  to  try  that  Chop  Suey  joint  across  from 
the  hotel  in  Grand  Rapids.  When  I  am  famous,  I  shall  buy  a  hotel 
and  do  the  cooking  myself.  It  is  an  art. 

"So  far  as  business  goes,  things  could  not  be  better.  Jack 
Bantry  has  been  playing  the  gay  Lothario  a  little  too  often  but  so 
far  with  no  serious  results.  I  should  hate  to  lose  him.  His  Irish 
voice  certainly  brings  down  the  gallery.  My  only  difficulty  has 
been  in  keeping  the  peace  between  the  rival  artists  that  make  up 
our  chorus.  I  have  decided  more  than  once  that  only  poisoning 
you  could  ever  compensate  me  for  the  difficulties  I  have  had  with 
them.  Do  you  realize  you  promised  every  single  one  of  them  the 
part  of  understudy  to  Ruby?  I  watch  every  mouthful  she  eats 
with  the  greatest  concern.  If  she  should  fall  ill  for  one  night  I 
verily  believe  there  would  be  blood  shed  over  who  should  take 
her  part.  You  have  no  idea  what  a  peach  she  really  is.  Travelling 
around  the  way  we  do  gives  you  a  mighty  good  measure  of  what  a 
girl  is  really  made  of. 

"I  arh  prostrated  with  grief  to  think  I  can't  see  the  first  night 
of  that  play  of  yours — though  from  the  name  1  should  probably 
rush  from  the  theatre,  blushing,  at  the  end  of  the  second  act.  Please 
invite  all  that  musical  committee  at  the  Dutch  Reformed  for  me! 
If  you  get  a  chance,  you  might  kick  one  or  two  of  them  as  they  go 
out  the  lobby. 

"  Sylvia  Tremaine  sounds  very  attractive.  Financially,  I  guess, 
she  is  a  sure  thing.  She  will  make  it  go  if  any  one  can.  Here  is 
hoping,  anyhow,  for  the  very  best.  Give  my  love  to  Carrie — and 
don't  forget  it!  You  have  always  been  afraid  to  send  it  in  those 
dull,  midnight  letters  of  yours.  I  wipe  a  silent  tear  just  now — 
farewell.  Yours, 

"Ric." 

They  have  gone  a  long  way  since  they  came  to  New 
York  a  bare  seven  months  ago,  thinks  Sammy,  as  he 


120  THE  BALANCE 

gazes  around  the  second-floor  room.  The  mirror  is 
just  as  cracked  as  ever,  and  the  carpet  as  subtly  cheer- 
ful, but  somehow  he  has  gotten  used  to  them.  The 
"Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  was  written  here,  and  it  seems 
a  little  bit  like  home.  If  it  were  only  in  Melchester, 
its  imitation  would  be  complete. 

Melchester!  It  seems  like  contemplating  a  con- 
tinuation of  that  old  dream,  to  realize  that  he  is  pack- 
ing at  last  to  return  home,  and  his  exile  is  over. 

I  fear,  however,  that  fate  has  not  the  heart  to  give 
him  any  inkling  of  the  truth  to-night.  As  he  packs 
the  bundle  of  Carrie's  letters,  he  is  seeing  Main  Street 
again  on  Saturday  night,  looking  in  at  old  Mr.  Dabney's 
office  in  the  Preston  Block,  wondering  if  the  For  Rent 
sign  is  still  in  that  dusty  window  that  once  was  Pike, 
Incorporated,  hearing  the  rustle  of  the  bare  branches 
of  the  trees  on  Hawthorne  Street,  smelling  the  burning 
leaves  on  Washington  Avenue,  seeing  the  table  set  for 
dinner  in  at  Asa's,  looking  out  over  the  fading  grass 
of  the  Country  Club  links,  gazing  on  the  homeward 
rush  of  Melchester  in  the  early  winter's  dusk,  cars, 
wagons,  carriages,  and  motors  gray  misted  as  they 
pass  the  twinkling  street  lamps. 

He  will  keep  his  trunk  here  with  Ricorton's  valises 
on  Twenty-ninth  Street.  He  will  have  to  come  back 
to  New  York,  live  here  finally,  if  he  and  Ric  stay  in  the 
producing  business,  and  how  long  he  will  stay  in  Mel- 
chester he  does  not  know. 

The  engagement  of  Sylvia  Tremaine  is  only  for  two 
nights  before  she  comes  down  the  Hudson,  and  opens 
a  week  later  in  the  metropolis.  So  he  must  be  in  New 
York  for  that.  Miss  Tremaine  will  give  her  usual 
supper  party,  afterward,  that  night  on  Broadway, 
and  he  will  be  one  of  the  principal  guests. 

Melchester  must  be  a  trifle  agog  by  now  he  thinks; — 
the  posters  are  all  up,  and  the  advance  notices  all 
pleasantly  printed  in  the  Democrat  Herald.  In  fact, 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  received  a  pleasant  letter  from 
the  dramatic  editor  whose  name  Hazleton  had  for- 


THE  BALANCE  121 

gotten,  and  whom  Sammy  cannot  now  recall.  In  it, 
too,  he  has  inquired  after  the  opera! 

The  opera!  Good  gracious,  thinks  Sammy,  with  a 
start.  He  has  nearly  forgotten  all  about  it  in  the  rush 
of  these  later  events.  Well,  it  must  have  something 
good  in  it.  He  will  look  it  up,  and  see  if  possibly 
it  cannot  be  revised.  A  true  artist,  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
— off  with  the  old  love,  on  with  the  new!  His  interest 
now  is  all  with  the  ''Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin."  He  will 
see  it  before  an  audience  soon.  Before  an  audience, 
and  Carrie! 

Carrie ! 

He  closes  his  travelling  bag  with  a  snap.  Into  his 
heart  there  has  stolen  a  queer,  little,  aching  feeling  of 
desire.  And  his  breath  comes  quicker,  and  his  hands 
tremble  just  a  trifle.  Carrie! 

He  has  remembered  that  evening  at  the  Country 
Club — always  to  stand  alone  in  his  memory — when  he 
kissed  her  so  blindlyj  on  the  fresh,  cool  mouth,  and 
slender  throat,  and  crushed  her  to  him  until  she  whis- 
pered, half  in  shyness,  half  in  passionate  gladness, 
"Let  me  kiss  you,  too!"  And  he  will  be  in  Melchester 
to-morrow. 

Ah,  Carrie! 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  WHICH  CARRIE  HAS  A  PLEASANT  BREAKFAST  WITH 

HER  FATHER,  AND  SYLVIA  SPENDS  A  DISAGREEABLE 

AFTERNOON 

LIVES,  like  cities,  are  filled  with  odd  characters 
and  many  people;  but  unlike  cities,  they  seldom  present 
them  in  crowds.  The  real  dramas  of  real  life  are 
usually  played  out  in  tiny  groups  of  scenes  with  but 
two  or  three  actors  present,  and  long  lapses  between 
the  curtains.  To  be  constructed  true  to  life,  a  play 
should  have  many  curtains  for  even  the  simplest 
drama  of  human  beings. 

To-day,  however,  should  be  bright  for  our  Sammy, 
whatever  the  construction.  For  it  is  the  day,  so 
the  biography  assures  us,  of  his  first,  real,  smashing 
triumph.  Had  they  meant  the  triumph  at  the 
Schroeders',  I  should  be  inclined  to  agree  with  them. 
But  I  do  not  recollect  that  the  house  on  Washington 
Avenue  is  mentioned  in  that  estimable  work. 

They  know  at  the  Schroeders'  this  morning,  never- 
theless, that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  must  be  in  town.  A 
large  bouquet  of  roses  has  arrived  for  Carrie  the  night 
before,  and  his  play  is  scheduled  for  to-day.  There 
has  been  no  card  with  the  flowers,  but  Mrs.  Schroeder 
has  been  too  canny  to  inquire  who  the  sender  might 
be.  She  does  not  care  to  take  any  chances  of  bring- 
ing up  the  subject  of  the  Tappan  boy  just  at  present. 
It  is  because  she  does  not  exactly  see  how  she  can 
withdraw  from  the  position  she  has  taken.  Perhaps 
that  is  why  she  has  allotted  the  job  to  Mr.  Schroeder. 

He  relishes  it  less  than  ever  this  morning.  Indeed, 
there  is  an  ominous  silence  about  Carrie,  as  she  eats 

122 


THE  BALANCE  123 

her  breakfast,  which  does  not  augur  well.  These 
months  have  seen  quite  a  reversal  of  form  at  the 
Schroeders':  pounding  on  tables  has  fallen  into  dis- 
repute; loud  yelling,  as  a  method  of  driving  home  an 
argument,  is  no  longer  feasible.  Carrie's  eternal 
questions  have  reduced  the  Schroeder  forces  to  the 
minimum.  Good  heavens,  there  is  no  reason  for  a 
great  many  things! 

It  is  why  silence  is  the  potent  weapon  most  in  favour 
now.  The  Schroeders,  including  the  offspring,  dis- 
approve of  Carrie  in  stern  silence. 

"I  met  a  man  called  John  Rouse  yesterday,"  says 
Carrie,  steadily,  at  last.  "Do  you  know  him,  father?" 

She  will  not  talk  of  Sammy,  though  she  is  trying 
hard  to  be  calm  at  the  thrilling  prospect  before  her 
this  evening. 

Mr.  Schroeder's  face  falls.  This  is  a  poor  beginning. 
It  will  take  some  time  to  clear  up  the  Tappan  affair  at 
such  a  rate. 

"Yes,"  he  says,  with  unusual  force.     "A  crook!" 

He  is  beginning  seriously  to  consider  taking  his 
breakfasts  out.  It  seems  almost  as  if  every  subject 
they  discuss  were  a  most  disagreeable  one.  His  wife, 
however,  has  set  him  the  task  of  straightening  the 
Tappan  mess,  and  he  must  do  it. 

Carrie  brings  him  back  to  John  Rouse. 

"I  think  it  is  our  fault  if  he  is  a  crook,"  she  says 
quietly. 

Mr.  Schroeder  turns  quite  purple.  Is  everything  his 
fault? 

"Nonsense,"  he  says,  as  loudly  as  he  dares.  "The 
man  is  a  crank,  a  dynamiter,  anarchist,  socialist — I 
don't  know  what  all.  What  have  we  got  to  do  with 
it?" 

"We  have  closed  our  ears  to  him,"  answers  Carrie. 

"And  will  continue  to,"  retorts  Mr.  Schroeder. 
Is  this  what  they  teach  the  girls  at  the  Settlements? 
"If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  shoot  all  such  fellows  against  a 
stone  wall.  That  would  cure  them  of  their  ideas." 


124  THE  BALANCE 

Dimly  he  recognizes  a  real  enemy  when  he  sees  one; 
and  this  Rouse,  although  he  does  not  exactly  under- 
stand why,  rouses  his  last  ounce  of  fighting  blood. 

"And  make  revolutionists  of  their  friends,"  Carrie 
remarks,  slowly,  though  her  eyes  flash  a  little.  She 
knows  how  she  would  feel  should  some  one  shoot  her 
friends  against  a  stone  wall.  "That  is  the  trouble," 
she  goes  on.  "We  won't  listen — any  of  us." 

"Who  wants  to  listen  to  such  drivel?"  demands 
Mr.  Schroeder  angrily. 

This  subject  drives  him  mad.  All  the  fools  in  the 
world  seem  to  have  banded  into  this  group  called 
by  all  these  names  he  cannot  make  head  or  tail  of, 
and  so  lumps  magnificently  together. 

Socialists!  They  can  never  divide  up  all  the  vege- 
tables is  Mr.  Schroeder's  intelligent  view  of  socialism 
and  socialized  industry.  There  usually  rises,  too,  be- 
fore his  dimly  lit  vision,  a  sort  of  huge  soup  kitchen 
where  thousands  of  people  sit  eating  common  and 
communal  soup,  in  a  final  effort  to  divide  the  last  drop 
— and  he  shudders!  The  only  good  he  has  ever  been 
able  to  see  in  it  is  that  he  himself  is  a  slow  eater. 

Somewhere,  however,  there  is  a  hazy  question  in  his 
mind.  It  does  not  seem  reasonable  that  these  people 
who  are  so  desirous  of  justly  dividing  the  soup  can 
be  the  ones  who  are  throwing  bombs.  Or  is  it,  per- 
haps, that  they  object  to  soup  at  all,  and  wish  stew? 
There  must  be  some  discrepancy,  somewhere;  or  else 
they  are  all  fools,  anyway,  and  don't  know  better! 
This  is  an  echo  from  his  wife. 

"We  are  driving  them  to  do  the  things  they  do," 
says  Carrie,  "by  not  listening!  It  is  our  fault  now — 
just  as  it  was,  in  a  different  cause,  two  thousand  years 
ago." 

This,  of  course,  is  insanity.  Who  knows  where  any 
of  them  were  two  thousand  years  ago?  It  is  typical 
of  this  stuff;  nothing  on  which  a  practical  man  can 
put  his  hand! 

"These  people  aren't  successful,  that's  all!"  he  says 


THE  BALANCE  125 

angrily.  "They  want  to  get  what  we  have.  That  is  all 
the  talk  is  about.  Let  'em  work,  and  save  their  money 
as  I  did,  and  they  won't  have  time  for  all  this  non- 
sense." 

The  nucleus  of  that  first  grocery  store  is  quite  for- 
gotten, now.  Mr.  Schroeder  is  the  heaviest  stock- 
holder in  a  great  many  enterprises  these  days.  Let 
people  work,  not  think;  it  is  much  better  so.  There  are 
fewer  disturbances  in  the  labour  market.  This  Rouse,  he 
knows,  preaches  dynamite  and  sabotage.  Mr.  Schroeder 
becomes  quite  excited. 

"  Foreigners,  most  of  them !  If  they  don't  like  Amer- 
ica, let  them  go  back.  We  don't  ask  them  over  here! 
The  more  you  do  for  them,  the  more  they  want.  Just 
look  around  at  the  factories  and  towns — half  again  the 
wages  they  used  to  get,  fine  sanitary  factories,  and  still, 
by  George,  they  kick!" 

He  grunts.  He  has  almost  persuaded  himself  that  he 
and  his  stockholders  gave  these  people  all  these  im- 
provements willingly;  there  were  strikes,  to  be  sure,  but 
probably  they  would  have  given  them  the  things  sooner 
or  later,  anyway.  There  has  always  been  some  com- 
petition. 

Carrie  sighs. 

"I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,  father,"  she  says,  almost 
sadly.  "The  fine  factories  give  just  as  many  lay-offs  as 
before.  The  better  machinery  just  seems  to  turn  the 
things  out  faster,  and  the  better  conditions  produce  more 
work  from  each  employee — and  less  employment  for 
all." 

"Well,"  retorts  Mr.  Schroeder,  "we  can't  give  work 
when  there  isn't  any.  We've  got  to  lay  them  ofF  to 
make  a  profit." 

"A  profit,"  Carrie  says  quietly.  "While  the  workers 
starve." 

"Let  'em  go  some  place  else,  then,,"  retorts  Mr. 
Schroeder.  "They  don't  have  to  work  for  us."  He 
has  been  over  this  a  hundred  times  already. 

" It  is  the  same  thing  everywhere  for  them!"  she  cries. 


126  THE  BALANCE 

"Where  can  they  go?  They've  got  to  work  for 
you!" 

"But  I  can't  help  that,  can  I  ?"  shouts  Mr.  Schroeder. 
What  a  state  of  affairs  when  a  man  must  justify  his 
business  affairs  to  his  own  daughter! 

"We  can  all  help,  if  we  will,"  Carrie  answers. 

If  she  were  only  a  man — like  Sammy  now — what  a 
God-sent  opportunity! 

She  has  worked  a  year  among  the  poor  now,  and  the 
heartrending  tragedy  of  poverty  has  stirred  her  soul. 
There  is  such  plenty  here  on  earth  for  all. 

It  is  the  first,  faint  sounding  of  the  new  crusaders'  call 
echoing  in  her  heart;  that  translation  of  the  spirit  of  the 
pioneer,  who  blazed  the  forest  of  a  new  world,  and  bore 
liberty  to  its  home  in  the  wilderness — translated  now 
into  a  new  spirit  of  humanity:  a  spirit  which  gathers 
strength  day  by  day  for  its  assault  upon  the  citadel  of 
poverty — hopeless,  stinging,  bestial,  degrading  poverty 
— and  for  its  new  battle  for  the  souls  of  men  and  women; 
a  spirit  led  by  a  myriad  modern  Pauls  from  modern 
Antiochs;  the  same  spirit  that  imbued  the  empire-build- 
ing West,  turned  now,  in  the  East,  from  its  conquest  of 
the  soil,  to  the  higher  conquest  of  civilizations  monster, 
poverty;  a  spirit  old  as  Christ,  yet  so  new  that  the  Mr. 
Schroeders  of  the  world  cannot  recognize  it  yet. 

Into  her  mind,  as  she  sits  at  the  table,  there  comes 
then  the  picture  of  John  Rouse,  violent,  ignorant, 
proud,  his  vision  blurred  and  distorted  by  the  trampling 
of  the  monster,  yet  within  him  the  conviction  of  his  own 
righteousness  making  him  a  fire  brand  to  set  alight  the 
dimmed  imaginations  of  the  men  who  toil;  men  who,  as 
yet,  compose  the  vast  mob  of  unskilled  labour,  banded 
into  no  union,  and  with  no  word  of  hope  from  all  the 
world  save  that  from  the  desperate  Industrial  Workers 
of  the  World — wolves  calling  out  to  wolves  with  the 
voice  of  need  and  hunger.  John  Rouse!  In  spite  of  his 
faults  she  cannot  withhold  a  certain  admiration  for  the 
fire  of  the  man.  Is  it,  she  wonders,  but  another  mani- 
festation of  that  spirit  of  liberty,  trampled  this  time  out 


THE  BALANCE  127 

of  all  semblance  to  the  original,  and  shining  in  the 
Welshman's  face  only  as  defiance  and  fearlessness  in  the 
face  of  a  world  of  death  ? 

It  is  as  she  sits  opposite  her  father,  and  thinks  of  John 
Rouse  and  the  man  across  the  table  from  her,  so  differ- 
ent in  their  ideas,  yet  so  alike  in  the  incompleteness  of 
their  vision,  their  mutual  lack  of  understanding  and 
sympathy,  that  the  deathless  words  from  Palestine  echo 
in  her  heart:  "Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do."  An  older  generation,  these  two  with  no 
watchwords  except  "Death  But  No  Surrender!"  Will 
this  new  one  be  the  same? 

Mrs.  Schroeder  has  come  into  breakfast  now,  how- 
ever, and  the  vision  fades  from  Carrie's  mind  as  the 
severe  face  of  her  mother  looks  across  the  table  at  her 
and  Mr.  Schroeder.  Mr.  Schroeder,  too,  is  drinking  his 
coffee  with  unwonted  assiduity.  The  domestic  drama 
once  more  holds  the  stage. 

Confound  it,  Mr.  Schroeder  is  thinking,  he  has  not  yet 
mentioned  this  Tappan  boy.  He  rebels  a  little.  Why 
is  it  that  he  must  always  pull  the  domestic  cart  out  of 
the  mud?  He  must  do  it  now,  however,  as  they  are 
alone;  alone,  that  is,  except  for  Annie  of  course,  who 
does  not  count  with  Mr.  Schroeder.  He  must  fix  the 
thing  some  way  before  the  meal  is  over. 

He  cannot  drink  his  coffee  any  longer,  so  he  emerges 
from  his  cup.  Confound  it,  why  does  Annie  stay  in  the 
room  all  the  time?  He  has  never  noticed  her  before! 
Does  she  always  hang  around  the  screen  like  this? 

Mr.  Schroeder,  I  sadly  fear,  is  a  trifle  self-conscious 
this  morning. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to-day,  my  dear?"  he  asks 
Carrie. 

"The  Settlement,"  she  answers.  She  is  perverse. 
The  contact  of  many  encounters  with  these  two  parents 
has  worn  the  once  almost  too  soft  shyness  of  her  into  an 
uncertain  surface.  She  knows  he  is  referring  to  the 
evening  and  her  Sammy,  but  she  will  not  give  him  any 
satisfaction  now.  He  hates  the  Settlement,  so  per- 


128  THE  BALANCE 

haps  the  conversation  will  stop  there.  She  would  not 
admit  it,  but  in  her  heart  she  no  longer  believes,  either, 
that  Settlements  will  change  the  world.  To  her  the 
Settlement  has  changed  its  aspect:  It  is  merely  the 
school  where  one  may  learn  to  see  the  world  as  it  is — a 
world  going  on  forever  around  the  school,  almost  uncon- 
scious of  its  presence  save  for  the  voice  of  the  graduates 
whom  it  has  educated.  Education!  another  name,  per- 
haps, for  the  light  of  the  world.  As  for  its  being  the 
cure-all 

Mr.  Schroeder  takes  the  plunge. 

"I  thought,"  he  says  playfully,  "you  might  be  busy 
this  afternoon — with  some  one!" 

Well,  he  is  a  fool,  thinks  Mrs.  Schroeder.  What  a 
way  to  do  anything!  He  is  no  farther  ahead  than  he 
was  before. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asks  Carrie,  a  little  wickedly. 
She  is  quite  certain  just  what  he  means.  She  knows, 
however,  that  these  two  parents  of  hers  are  a  very  un- 
certain quantity.  They  have  heard  a  great  deal  about 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  these  last  six  months,  but  just  how 
coloured  she  does  not  know.  Are  they  starting  easily  on 
the  slide  down  to  the  plain  of  approval  of  Sammy  this 
morning  ? 

In  the  background,  however,  another  character  in 
this  drama  has  been  waiting,  all  unconsciously,  a  long 
time  for  her  cue;  so  long  that  I  fear  most  of  the  other 
actors  have  forgotten  she  was  ever  meant  to  have  a  part. 

They  do  not  know  that  in  Sammy  there  breathes 
again  for  her  the  bright  eyes  and  gay  smile  of  a  vanished 
policeman,  dead  now  these  twenty  years;  that,  as  she 
passes  plates  and  glasses,  the  sight  of  Hawthorne  Street 
in  summer  springs  up  before  her  Irish  vision  at  the 
mention  by  these  alien  Schroeders  of  the  name  of  Tap- 
pan — Hawthorne  Street,  and  Sammy  on  an  ancient 
horse  block,  with  Asa  in  the  elm-shadowed  distance,  and 
down  the  street  the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs  and  buggy 
wheels  telling  her  that  some  one  is  coming  to  take  her 
driving  in  the  country.  And  her  eyes  fill  up  again  with 


THE  BALANCE  129 

tears  as  they  have  these  twenty  years.  She  was  not  al- 
ways forty  and  a  servant,  with  a  silent  role  to  play.  No, 
by  Heaven,  Annie !  This  is  your  cue,  and  I,  for  one,  will 
stop  and  listen  for  your  speech. 

"It's  Sammy  your  father  means,  Colleen,"  she  cries, 
twisting  up  her  hands.  Sammy!  Her  Sammy!  "And 
the  play  at  the  theatre  to-night !  We're  all  going.  He's 
sent  us  tickets  in  the  kitchen." 

If  anything  will  get  you  into  Heaven,  Sammy,  it  will 
be  those  tickets  to  the  kitchen.  There  were  times  when 
you  were  a  man. 

Into  the  calm  of  the  Schroeder  dining-room,  however, 
the  remark  has  fallen  like  a  vast  explosion.  It  is  as  if 
the  Sphinx  had  not  only  spoken,  but  had  yelled.  And 
yelled,  perhaps,  for  woman  suffrage.  The  Schroeders 
could  not  have  been  more  startled.  Annie  has  spoken 
from  the  heart.  It  was  the  only  time  she  ever  spoke  at 
table. 

Carrie  saves  the  day. 

"He's  taking  me,  Annie,"  she  answers  calmly. 

For  all  the  rest  of  her  life  Annie  never  forgot  that 
Carrie  answered  her,  and  let  Mr.  Schroeder  wait.  It  is 
of  such  small  things  that  happiness  is  made. 

The  revelation  to  Mr.  Schroeder  and  his  wife,  how- 
ever, that  Annie  not  only  waits,  but  thinks — and  worse, 
sees  through  them — is  not  more  astounding  than  the 
clear  light  her  remark  has  thrown  upon  the  real  situa- 
tion. Somehow,  they  have  never  figured  her  before  as 
a  real  person.  She  has  faded  in  with  the  china  cabinet 
and  the  walls  as  an  object.  Her  remark  has  scattered 
that  idea  forever.  She  has  known  what  it  was  all  about 
from  the  beginning  and  has  completely  routed  Mr. 
Schroeder's  careful  strategy  at  the  crucial  moment.  The 
bare  fact,  alone,  is  left  now,  that  he  was  offering  to  cease 
the  war  on  Sammy.  Thank  Heaven,  however,  the 
thing  is  done  now.  They  can  at  least  ask  some  questions 
and  find  out  what  is  happening. 

Inside  Mrs.  Schroeder,  meanwhile,  a  great  relief  has 
come,  also.  She  has  been  taking  imaginative  glances  at 


130  THE  BALANCE 

the  future  for  some  time  now — with  our  Sammy  in  the 
role  of  lion  of  Melchester,  dining  nightly  at  the  canal 
driver's  descendants'  mansion;  ever  since  the  success  of 
the  vaudeville  sketch  and  the  linking  of  his  name  with 
Sylvia  Tremaine,  in  fact.  If  the  young  man  is  going  to 
make  some  money,  why,  she  can  see  no  objection  to  him 
at  all. 

The  newspapers  and  the  dramatic  editor  of  the  Dem- 
ocrat Herald  have  been  principally  responsible  for  her 
information;  but  for  once  it  has  been  mostly  correct. 
She  knows  the  frightful  penchant  for  distinguished 
artistic  people  that  the  leaders  in  society  seem  to  have; 
perhaps  on  the  theory  of  opposites.  What  more  reason- 
able than  that  the  once  grand  name  of  Tappan  blossom 
forth  once  more  among  the  best  people  of  Melchester? 
She  knows  our  Sammy  has  the  added  requisite  of  birth — 
if  he  comes  forth  also  distinguished  she  can  see  the 
plain  results. 

Only  one  thing  really  worries  her.  The  business  of  a 
playwright  seems  so  very  uncertain.  Who  knows  the  ex- 
act future  of  this  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin,"  for  instance? 
It  may  be  a  failure,  and  she  will  have  smiled  on  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  all  for  nothing !  Even  her  strange  sense 
of  humour  will  not  permit  the  contemplation  of  still  an- 
other aboutface  in  such  a  quandary.  If  she  takes  an- 
other stand,  it  will  be  for  good.  She  must  take  the 
right  one. 

This  is  the  reason  why  she  is  going  out  for  dinner  to- 
night, taking  Mr.  Schroeder  with  her.  She  will  not  risk 
meeting  S.  Sydney  Tappan  until  she  has  seen  his  play 
and  measured  the  applause!  Her  new  position  can  be 
assumed  upon  the  following  day  with  grace  and,  all  im- 
portant— certitude.  A  risky,  exciting  life,  this  life  of 
the  social  aspirant;  and  necessitating  great  care  and 
study — with  never  a  real  showdown  with  one's  soul. 

I  think  it  was  partly  the  questions  her  parents  asked 
her  at  breakfast  that  morning  that  roused  in  Carrie  the 
great  curiosity  she  had  all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  see  the 
woman  about  whom  Sammy  had  written  her  so  much, 


THE  BALANCE  131 

and  on  whose  magnetism  so  much  depended.  Sammy 
has  told  her  that  on  Sylvia  Tremaine  rests  the  success  or 
failure  of  his  play.  What  sort  of  person  is  this  Sylvia? 
And  will  she  do  her  part? 

In  Carrie's  heart  is  still  the  conviction  that  her  Sammy 
is  simply  modest.  This  play  will  succeed  because  of  its 
inherent  worth  and  dramatic  quality — though,  of 
course,  Sylvia  Tremaine  will  help.  It  is  not  that  she 
does  not  like  the  idea  that  another  should  help  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  to  his  pinnacle  of  fame  either:  it  is  that  Sammy 
needs  no  help,  no  one  with  whom  to  share  his  honours. 
He  is  able  to  carve  his  own  niche  in  fame's  temple.  She 
can  see  that  Sylvia's  part  will  require  character  acting 
of  the  finest  sort,  but  she  is  only  familiar  with  the  bare 
outline  of  the  plot,  and  not  its  technical  working  out. 
There  has  been  no  time  to  send  her  any  copy  of  the 
play. 

Sammy  has  written  her  from  New  York  that  he 
wishes  her  for  dinner  at  the  hotel  alone;  and  afterward 
they  will  see  the  play  from  the  shelter  of  a  box.  But  she 
will  not  be  at  liberty  till  five-thirty,  so  he  is  to  call  for  her 
on  Hague  Street,  as  he  once  used  to  at  the  Y.  W.  C.  A. 

Meanwhile,  he  will  have  a  last  talk  with  Sylvia  at  tea, 
before  the  play.  Sylvia  does  not  eat  dinner.  Four- 
thirty  tea  suffices  her  until  the  theatre  is  over.  She  can 
get  some  rest  in  this  way  from  five  until  seven-thirty  and 
go  to  her  work  refreshed. 

It  is  just  four  o'clock  as  Sammy  knocks  upon  her  door, 
and  she  calls  "Come  in!" 

He  has  been  having  his  qualms  of  doubt  ever  since  he 
called  Carrie  on  the  telephone  at  two  o'clock,  and  she 
seemed  so  excited  about  seeing  the  play.  In  some  subtle 
way  the  atmosphere  of  Melchester  impresses  him  as 
different  from  New  York.  Is  it  Melchester,  though,  so 
much  as  Carrie?  The  girls  upon  the  street,  now;  they 
are  like  New  York — the  same  indefinable  suggestion  of 
conscious  sex  in  the  way  they  dress,  and  give  first  aid  to 
their  complexion.  He  can  remember,  not  so  many 
years  ago,  when  no  one  in  Melchester  dared  use  rouge  or 


132  THE  BALANCE 

paint;  but  now  he  cannot  distinguish  between  some  of 
his  old  friends  and  the  demi-monde  until  they  are  within 
speaking  distance. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that  the  scene  in  the  last  act  seems  to 
trouble  him  this  afternoon  ?  It  has  taken  him  some  time 
to  find  out  just  what  it  is  that  has  been  bothering  him, 
and  he  is  certain  now  it  is  this  scene.  It  means  success 
in  the  metropolis,  he  knows,  and  surely  that  is  all  that  he 
is  after.  He  is  quite  convinced,  too,  that  it  will  take 
Melchester  by  storm.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  that,  he  is 
uncomfortable.  Is  he  wondering,  perhaps,  what  Carrie 
will  think  of  Sylvia  Tremaine?  Or  of  his  play,  and — 
incidentally,  himself? 

Sylvia  turns  from  the  window  as  he  enters,  her  eyes 
lighting  up  at  the  sight  of  him. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  have  come,  Sydney,"  she  says 
plaintively.  She  points  at  the  bald,  big  German  in  the 
chair  by  the  window.  "Friedy  here  has  been  scolding 
me  ever  since  he  came!" 

"He  is  losing  his  manners,"  says  Sammy  gayly.  "He 
doesn't  realize  how  fortunate  he  is." 

"Miss  Tremaine  needs  more  than  a  manager  to  look 
after  her,"  says  Friedman,  his  watery  blue  eyes  blinking 
rapidly.  "She  needs  a  husband!" 

Sylvia  scowls. 

"You  won't  get  the  place,  old  pig!"  she  says,  making 
a  face  at  him.  "  You'll  be  nice  to  me,  anyway,  Sydney," 
she  adds,  with  a  complete  change  of  tone.  "I  have  a 
first  night  ahead  of  me  in  three  hours!" 

Friedman  rises  with  a  little  grunt. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  ever  learn  your  parts,  Sylvia," 
he  says  half  whimsically.  "You're  mostly  crazy,  I 
think." 

"Go  out!"  she  says  threateningly.  "Or  I'll  retire 
this  minute  with  your  old  theatre  full!  Retire  with 
Sydney  here,  and  we'll  live  the  simple  life  somewhere  far 
from  disagreeable  managers  and  fat  old  pigs." 

As  Friedman  goes  out,  Sammy  seats  himself  at  the  tea 
table  and  helps  himself  to  toast. 


THE  BALANCE  133 

"Is  it  a  good  house?"  he  asks  nonchalantly. 

"When  it's  me!"  says  Sylvia,  stamping  her  foot. 
"Of  course  it's  full.  If  you're  going  to  be  disagreeable, 
too,  you  can  go." 

Sammy  turns  and  looks  at  her  in  surprise. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  asks. 

Sylvia  watches  him  from  the  bed  through  half-closed 
lids. 

"It;s  me,  Tappy,"  she  confesses  meekly.  "I'm  a 
devil  on  my  first  nights!  I  haven't  done  that  little 
second-act  scene,  the  one  Friedy  has  been  making  such  a 
fuss  about,  so  he  is  mad.  How  do  I  know  how  I'm 
going  to  do  it  until  the  time  comes?  The  stage  is  all 
mine." 

Sammy  gazes  at  her  meditatively. 

"Consider  yourself  flattered,"  he  says,  after  a  little 
pause. 

"Why?  "asks  Sylvia. 

"I  turned  down  a  tea  this  afternoon  at  the  Dobbs' — 
just  for  you!" 

"Who  are  the  Dobbs?"  she  asks  indolently. 

"My  roommate  at  college,"  replies  Sammy. 

"All  of  them?"  she  murmurs  lightly. 

Sammy  looks  at  her  reproachfully. 

"Every  one  of  them,  of  course,"  he  answers  sternly. 
"They  used  to  live  next  door  to  us  on  Hawthorne 
Street,  before  they  made  a  fortune  in  real  estate.  They 
wanted  me  to  bring  you,  of  course,  until  I  told  them 
how  exclusive  you  were." 

Sylvia  does  not  answer.  She  has  gotten  up  by  now, 
and  is  looking  out  of  the  window  down  upon  Main 
Street,  eight  stories  below. 

"It  is  a  wretched  little  village,  isn't  it?"  she  says,  at 
last.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  get  back  to  New  York.  I 
always  am.  How  is  Carrie,  and  when  do  I  see  her? 
And  what  have  you  been  doing  since  early  morning  that 
you  haven't  been  round  to  see  me  before?" 

He  laughs. 

"After  all,  I  used  to  live  here,  you  know,"  he  answers 


134  THE  BALANCE 

amusedly.  "I  have  been  greeting  the  charter  members 
of  your  old  home  Knockers'  Club,  mostly."  He  looks  at 
her  seriously.  "You  have  got  to  put  this  thing  across 
big  to-night  for  my  sake  if  for  no  one  else's.  Come  in  and 
meet  Carrie,  for  a  moment,  before  you  go  to  the  theatre. 
She  will  be  having  dinner  here  with  me." 

Sylvia  puts  her  chin  in  her  hands,  and  looks  at  him. 

"Haven't  you  seen  her  yet?"  she  asks  curiously. 

Sammy  shakes  his  head. 

"Friedman  made  me  change  the  first  act  opening,  and 
I've  spent  most  all  day  over  at  the  theatre  getting  the 
thing  right." 

She  rises  and  goes  to  the  table  by  the  windows. 

"Some  mail  for  you,"  she  says,  bringing  back  a  few 
letters.  "From  the  theatre." 

The  theatre  in  Melchester!  How  strange!  Then  he 
remembers.  He  has  written  Carrie  that  a  note  will  reach 
him  there  if,  for  any  reason,  she  will  not  be  home  when 
he  calls  up.  She  must  have  given  it  as  an  address  for 
others  if  they  wish  to  write;  and  the  stage  manager  has 
sent  them  over  to  Friedman. 

The  vertical,  bold  handwriting  of  the  first  one  gives 
him  a  strange  feeling  of  age — in  a  flash  of  memory  the 
writer  has  come  back  to  him.  It  is  Dorothy  Alden's 
temperamental  script,  four  words  to  the  page!  He  can 
remember  that  there  was  a  time  when  he  actually  waited 
for  letters  like  these  to  come  to  his  post-office  box  at 
Williams. 

It  is  a  little  intimate  note,  she  writes  this  time,  to  ask 
him  out  to  call  at  their  new  house  by  the  Country  Club, 
and  for  dinner  the  next  night.  They  will  all  be  there, 
she  says,  the  Haltons,  and  Asa  and  Carrie — as  he  per- 
haps knows  already — and  some  newcomers,  too;  new, 
that  is,  to  Melchester  since  he  went  away. 

Since  Pike,  Incorporated,  failed,  she  means,  Sydney 
Tappan  thinks  a  little  bitterly,  as  he  tears  the  note  up 
under  Sylvia's  queer  gaze,  and  opens  the  others.  He 
has  learned  a  great  deal  since  that  night  at  the  Country 
•Club  when  Asa  and  Biff  Baker  were  starting  for  their 


THE  BALANCE  135 

transcontinental  tour  across  Montana.  Max  Stimson, 
Henry  Clark — whatever  happened  to  them  all,  he 
wonders,  now?  How  suddenly  his  old  life  dropped 
away  without  a  word  from  any  of  his  former  friends! 
Will  all  life  be  like  that,  he  wonders?  No,  not  all. 
Carrie  and  Ricorton  and  Sylvia  he  can  count  on  till  the 
end. 

The  other  notes  are  half  formal,  half  familiar,  with  a 
desire  through  them  all  to  take  up  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
once  more,  and  fete  Miss  Tremaine. 

He  tosses  them'  over  to  Sylvia,  who  reads  them  curi- 
ously with  a  little  sniff.  She  never  accepts  invitations 
during  her  tryout  week. 

When  she  is  through,  she  looks  up  with  a  little  smile. 

"Do  you  really  consider  living  here  again,  Tappy?" 
she  asks,  in  some  concern. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answers.     "  It's  home — in  a  way." 

"Home!"  says  Sylvia  musingly.  "It's  a  word  I 
hardly  know  the  meaning  of,"  she  sighs.  "A  stage  life 
seems  first  brother  to  a  travelling  one,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  has  its  compensations,"  Sammy  replies. 

"See  Mr.  Emerson,  page  26,"  she  laughs.  "I  would 
die,  though,  if  home  meant  Melchester  and  Main  Street, 
and  Washington  Avenue  to  me.  I  like  the  excitement 
of  New  York,  of  the  theatre,  of  adventure,  romance! 
Don't  you  ?  Or  are  you  going  to  settle  down  to  teas  and 
motor  cars  in  Melchester,  with  an  occasional  evening  at 
the  theatre  and  regular  attacks  of  whooping  cough  and 
measles  in  the  nursery?" 

"It  doesn't  sound  attractive,"  he  admits. 

"And  no  me  around,  Sydney,  to  bother  you  and  make 
love  to  you,  and  say  shocking  things.  I  don't  believe  I 
am  really  shocking  after  all,  Tappy.  I  should  blush  to 
let  you  hold  my  hand,  though  I  am  perfectly  willing  for 
you  to  stay  while  I  take  my  nap.  It  is  habit,  Tappy — all 
that  one  is  accustomed  to,  that's  al!." 

She  stretches  before  the  window. 

"I  am  going  to  lie  down  now,  Tappy.  Stay  or  go, 
just  as  you  like." 


136  THE  BALANCE 

She  pats  a  yawn  and  goes  into  her  bedroom  and  un- 
hooks her  tea  gown,  while  Sammy  looks  at  his  watch. 

"It's  five  o'clock  now,"  he  says.  "I'll  be  going.  I'll 
come  behind  with  Carrie,  if  you  don't  show  up  at 
dinner." 

"Pray  for  us,  Tappy,"  Sylvia  says  earnestly,  coming 
out  and  shaking  his  hand.  "We'll  win." 

And  she  closes  the  door  behind  him ;  to  stand  a  moment 
in  thought,  in  her  face  a  strange  little  look  of  longing. 
Then  she  shrugs  her  white  shoulders,  ivory  in  the  dusk, 
and  makes  a  tiny  face. 

"Probably  I  would  hate  him  in  a  year,  like  all  the 
rest!"  she  says  whimsically. 

And  she  wraps  her  negligee  about  her,  and  flings  her- 
self upon  the  bed,  to  sleep  until  Marie,  her  maid,  shall 
come  back  from  her  walk,  and  wake  her  for  the  theatre. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  WHICH  SAMMY,  WITH  SYLVIA'S  HELP,  SHOWS  OFF 

His  SPOTS,  AND  RETURNS  TO  NEW  YORK  TO  PONDER 

UPON  CARRIE'S  OPINION  OF  THEM 

IN  THE  winter  dusk  outside  S.  Sydney  Tappan  is 
walking  rapidly  down  Grand  Street,  toward  its  garish 
junction  with  Hague,  a  mile  away  from  the  downtown 
section.  Gay  with  the  light  of  corner  saloons,  this 
junction,  the  only  cheerful  spot  in  the  desolate,  de- 
pressing stretch  of  paintless,  weather-beaten  wooden 
houses,  which  have  not  yet  given  way  to  tenements; 
houses  crouching  miserably,  each  in  its  own  sooty 
yard  behind  broken  picket  fences.  Built  with  hope  and 
love  once,  these  houses  now  gone  to  decay,  even  as  the 
souls  of  their  occupants.  It  is  the  quarter  where  the 
poorer  workers  live,  and  the  Settlement  house  is  located. 

As  our  Sammy  walks  jauntily  along,  the  years  seem 
to  slip  from  his  shoulders  and  vanish  in  the  dying 
December  sunset,  and  he  is  again  twenty-one,  and 
striding  through  the  damp,  wet  street  to  call  for  Carrie 
to  take  her  home.  New  York  could  be  a  dream,  Ricor- 
ton  and  Sylvia  and  Ruby  mere  phantoms,  half  grasped 
and  vanished  now.  Whatever  became  of  Pike,  he 
wonders,  and  old  Mr.  Dabney?  He  blushes.  He  has 
never  written  the  kind  old  man  nor  heard  from  him 
since  the  day  he  left  Melchester  to  enter  the  show 
business.  It  has  been  partly  pride;  but  the  rest,  I 
fear,  is  selfishness. 

There  is  no  name  over  the  branch  Settlement  house 
on  Hague  Street,  and  did  S.  Sydney  Tappan  not  know 
the  number,  and  detect  with  it  a  certain  air  of  brighter 
cleanliness,  he  would  not  know  it  as  a  place  different 

137 


138  THE  BALANCE 

from  the  others.  There  are  more  lights  here  though, 
not  just  a  dim  lamp  in  the  kitchen  economically 
trimmed;  and  the  blinds  hang  straight,  with  no  broken 
shutters,  and  in  the  yard  no  rags  or  broken  glass  lie 
along  a  rotted  walk  leading  to  a  heart-broken  sagging 
porch.  These  houses  on  Hague  Street,  however,  do 
not  constitute  poverty,  the  Democrat  Herald  will  tell 
you;  these  are  happy  homes,  a  trifle  soiled,  perhaps 
reeking  filth  and  disease,  but  still  happy  and  humble 
enough  for  easy  editorials.  What  a  setting  for  a  night 
scene  in  a  play  of  the  submerged  tenth!  It  is  our 
Sammy's  thought  as  he  turns  in  at  the  gate,  and  as- 
cends the  steps  and  knocks. 

It  is  Carrie  who  answers  his  knock;  and  her  hand 
flies  to  her  throat,  and  her  eyes  shine  with  misty  tears 
at  the  sight  of  him  in  the  doorway.  He  has  come  at 
last. 

Let  us  turn  away,  however.  There  is  an  audience 
of  seven  little  girls  in  the  room  beyond,  and  surely  that 
is  sufficient.  Their  giggles  are  good  warrant  for  the 
fact  that  he  has  kissed  her,  and  she  has  stayed  in  his 
arms,  oblivious  to  all  the  world  in  the  sweetness  of 
being  close  to  him  once  more.  Even  the  little  girls 
are  stilled,  however,  as  she  disengages  herself,  and 
turns  around,  the  colour  flooding  her  cheeks.  They 
have  never  seen  any  one  look  like  that  in  all  their  little 
gray  lives,  and  it  silences  them.  It  is  time  to  get 
supper  and  their  mothers  have  gone  home,  and  they  can 
only  make  dolls  for  a  short  while  longer,  but  childhood 
is  the  same  the  world  over,  and  the  lives  of  these  little 
folk  will  not  be  dull  and  hopeless  until  the  imagination 
of  childhood  is  swallowed  by  the  manhood  cynicism 
of  the  industrial  world.  They  recognize  a  fairy  story 
when  they  see  one  yet;  and  there  is  one  in  Carrie's  face. 
It  is  why  they  are  silent. 

"What  God-forsaken  people!"  exclaims  Sammy,  in- 
voluntarily, a  few  minutes  later. 

They  are  walking  slowly  down  Hague  Street,  now, 
and  a  bakery  window  has  cast  its  light  upon  the  painted, 


THE  BALANCE  139 

drawn  face  of  a  woman,  her  shoulders  curiously  hunched, 
her  distorted  figure  poorly  covered  with  black  sateen 
which  shines  with  age  or  dirt,  in  her  eyes  a  look  of  stony 
hopelessness,  all  about  her  a  realization  of  the  hideous 
repulsion  of  the  cast-off,  the  used-up  woman  of  the 
streets.  She  seems  to  shrink  from  the  passerby  like  a 
starved  cur  of  the  brutal  alleys. 

"Good-evening,  Emma,"  Carrie  has  said;  but  the 
woman  has  answered  nothing  as  she  goes  by. 

Good  God,  was  she  ever  a  child,  making  paper  dolls 
upon  the  floor?  Sammy  shivers  and  draws  Carrie 
closer  to  his  side.  He  does  not  even  like  to  think  that 
she  has  spoken  to  the  creature. 

"I  know  her,"  Carrie  says,  simply,  a  moment  later. 
She  almost  wishes  she  had  not  been  with  Sammy.  Her 
happiness  must  be  so  plain  in  her  face;  and  for  Emma, 
she  knows,  life  can  hold  no  promise. 

"Emma  Rouse,"  she  says  slowly.  "John  Rouse's 
mother." 

Some  one's  mother,  thinks  Sammy  with  a  shudder. 
Into  his  own  mind  has  come  for  a  brief  second  the  pic- 
ture of  his  own  mother  as  he  remembers  her  in  Paris 
and  on  Hawthorne  Street. 

"She  came  from  Wales,  with  her  little  son,"  Carrie 
goes  on  in  her  low,  full  voice.  "Went  to  work  in  the 
clothing  factories  twenty  years  ago.  She  couldn't  make 
a  living — wages,  lay-offs,  you  see — not  enough  to  bring 
up  her  little  boy;  so  she — made  it  other  ways — just  at 
first — and  they  discharged  her  at  the  factory  because 
of  it — and  she — you  can  see  her  life  in  her  face." 

She  ends  up.  Sudden  comprehension  comes  to 
Sammy. 

"That  is  why  she  does  not  speak  to  you!"  he  says. 

"Why  shouldn't  she?"  cries  Carrie  fiercely. 

"Because  you  are  your  father's  daughter,"  answers 
Sammy.  "And  he  means  the  factories  to  her." 

Carrie  stops  still  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Oh!"  she  cries,  a  hurt  look  in  her  eyes.  "When  I 
never  harmed  her  at  all!"  She  is  silent  a  moment. 


140  THE  BALANCE 

then  goes  on  in  a  low  tone:  "I  suppose  it  is  because 
I  haven't  done  the  suffering,  and  she  has — that  she  can 
hate  me." 

Sammy  is  looking  at  her  with  new  eyes.  Experience 
is  rapidly  making  a  woman  of  this  slender  girl  at  his 
side,  the  tender  lines  of  youth  still  evident  in  her  charm- 
ing figure,  not  even  yet  rounded  to  the  full. 

"It  isn't  fair,"  she  says  to  him,  with  little,  clenched 
hands.  "When  I  am  doing  all  I  can  to  help  now." 

Sammy  is  silent.  He  does  not  know  much  about 
these  things.  He  needs  his  own  efforts  to  make  a  for- 
tune before  he  can  think  of  anything  else.  He  has 
learned  his  lesson,  he  feels  sure.  Nowadays,  one  must 
have  money.  The  scramble  of  his  generation  for  suc- 
cess is  on,  and  he  cannot  be  left  behind  to  live  in  houses 
such  as  he  has  just  left  on  Hague  Street.  That  is  the 
penalty  for  thinking  of  anything  else. 

"She  might  have  been  that  way,  anyhow,"  he  says, 
more  to  comfort  her  than  anything  else.  He  can  see, 
dimly,  that  the  morality  which  threw  the  woman  to  the 
wolves  looks  culpable  to  her.  That  he  should  be  dis- 
cussing morals  with  Carrie  does  not  seem  strange  at 
all.  He  has  become  accustomed  to  the  plain  speech  of 
the  stage,  and  does  not  realize  the  distance  Carrie  has 
travelled  to  have  acquired  this  point  of  view. 

"If  she  had  a  weakness  the  rest  of  us  should  have 
helped,  not  hindered!"  she  cries.  "And  she  had  that 
little  boy — I  don't  believe  it!" 

"What  became  of  him?"  asks  Sammy  curiously. 

"I  know  him,"  answers  Carrie.  "He's  a  syndicalist 
— an  I.  W.  W.  agitator.  Do  you  wonder?" 

Dimly,  Sammy  realizes  who  these  people  are.  These 
are  the  dynamiters  who  believe  the  socialists  will  never 
accomplish  their  reforms  by  argument,  and  so  prefer 
to  blow  the  world  in  pieces  and  start  over  with  them- 
selves on  top.  Carrie  is  evidently  mixing  with  the  world. 

They  have  turned  into  Washington  Avenue  now, 
with  these  thoughts  of  the  I.  W.  W.  still  in  Sammy's 
mind. 


THE  BALANCE  141 

Washington  Avenue  looks  much  the  same,  he  thinks, 
except  that  the  elms  are  bigger  and  finer,  and  the 
fine  new  street  lamps  shine  on  a  smoother  pavement, 
on  which  horses'  hoofs  and  carriage  wheels  no  longer 
echo.  Instead  there  sounds  the  velvet  roll  of  motors 
and  the  puff  of  exhausts,  with  now  and  then  the  harsh 
honk  of  horns  from  the  swift -moving  procession  of  lim- 
ousines and  electrics  and  automobiles  that  crowds  the 
roadway. 

From  whence  this  mushroom  prosperity,  this  gigantic 
rubbing  of  Aladdin's  lamp,  in  these  short  years?  It 
almost  seems  as  if  the  wealth  of  a  hundred  years  of 
labour  had  come  into  view  this  one  decade  he  thinks. 
Except,  that  is,  on  Hague  Street;  there  is  no  sign  of  a 
hundred  years  of  wealth  there.  Can  it  be  that  the 
labour  of  these  next  hundred  years  is  being  capitalized, 
and  put  out  at  interest  already?  An  interest  which  a 
labouring  world  groans  to  pay,  and  strives  with  increas- 
ing violence  to  repudiate  each  day  of  toil? 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  grasped,  lamely,  his 
final  conception  of  the  balance  of  society  I  think — 
grasped  it  dimly — only  to  relegate  it  half  understood 
into  the  recesses  of  his  mind;  one  of  his  first  tiny  flashes 
of  vision.  The  scales  of  society  balancing  the  happi- 
ness and  misery  of  the  world,  and  the  fabric  of  civiliza- 
tion the  price  of  keeping  the  balance!  He  saw  dimly 
the  happiness  of  Washington  Avenue  weighing  heavier 
and  heavier  over  against  the  misery  of  Hague  Street, 
until  for  a  second  he  feared  lest  the  day  might  come 
when  the  scales  would  break,  and  society  fall  in  pieces, 
unless  the  balance  could  right  itself  again.  It  is  odd  to 
consider  now  that  he  did  not  see  then  the  only  thing 
that  will  ever  keep  the  scales  balancing  correctly  for  us 
— did  not  realize,  too,  the  great  influence  he  might  one 
day  exert  in  the  right  exercise  of  that  dramatic  talent 
God  had  given  him. 

But  the  vision  vanished  as  quickly  as  it  had  come — 
vanished  with  the  pressure  of  Carrie's  hand  as  they 
turned  in  at  1200  Washington  Avenue. 


142  THE  BALANCE 

"The  family  are  out  for  dinner,"  she  says,  laugh- 
ingly, as  they  go  in  the  house.  And  she  kisses  him  as 
they  stand  for  a  moment  in  the  hallway.  "I  won't 
be  twenty  minutes  dressing — and  I  think  there  is  some 
one  in  the  kitchen  who  might  like  to  see  you!" 

And  she  flies  upstairs  to  her  room.  She  does  not 
care  now  that  there  is  no  picture  of  Sammy  in  it.  He 
is  downstairs,  himself,  with  his  picture  soon  to  come 
out  in  the  magazines.  The  play  will  be  a  great  success, 
of  course !  And  she  will  be  seeing  it  in  two  hours ! 

"I  have  been  entertaining  Annie  in  the  kitchen," 
Sammy  says  a  half-hour  later,  as  they  get  into  the  taxi- 
cab,  and  are  whirled  off  to  the  Mohawk  Hotel  for  dinner. 
"She  is  just  the  same." 

"She  has  been  just  waiting  for  this  night  to  come  so 
that  she  could  see  you  again,"  Carrie  answers.  "It  is 
quite  pathetic." 

Well,  this  is  to  be  the  proudest  moment  of  Annie's 
life  to-night,  Carrie,  so  perhaps  you  had  better  reserve 
your  sympathy.  I  only  wish  I  could  promise  you  as 
much.  You  are  not  mentioned,  you  see,  in  the 
biography  until  the  end — so  you  missed  the  smashing 
triumph,  somehow! 

She  and  S.  Sydney  Tapp'an  are  on  edge  to-night  in 
the  Mohawk  Hotel,  however — on  edge  with  excitement 
and  pride  and  nervousness.  Only  an  hour  and  twenty 
minutes  now  before  the  curtain!  It  is  a  wonder  that 
Sammy  does  not  wear  off  all  the  gold  from  that  watch  of 
his,  the  way  he  peers  at  it  every  few  moments.  He  has 
had  a  telegram  of  good  luck  from  Ric  and  Ruby,  and 
many  notes  from  Melchester  women  whose  names  he 
dimly  remembers  hearing  his  mother  speak.  The 
house,  too,  is  all  sold  out,  and  the  standing-room-only 
sign  hung  up !  How  will  they  take  it  ? 

"Isn't  it  so  exciting!"  cries  Carrie. 

She  is  more  wrought  up  than  if  she  had  written  this 
play  herself.  To-night  is  to  be  her  Sammy's  great 
triumph,  and  she  is  satisfied.  How  bitterly  she  has 
regretted  her  limitations  until  now!  Limitations  of 


THE  BALANCE  143 

sex  and  ability,  which  have  forced  her  to  stay  at  home 
while  her  Sammy  fought  the  world.  The  world-old 
tragedy  of  waiting  I 

If  only  she  could  have  shared  the  room  on  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street,  while  her  Sammy  wrote  this 
play!  She  does  not  wish  success  for  which  she  has  not 
struggled,  too.  The  hand  of  caste  has  been  heavy  on 
both  these  young  people,  and  it  has  never  occurred  to 
either  of  them  that  anything  is  possible  without  a 
certain  amount  of  money  to  live  on.  How  sensible! 
I  hear  you  saying.  Well,  perhaps.  A  second-floor 
back  room  and  poverty  require  more  of  the  spirit  than 
the  conquest  of  Peru. 

Where  to-night,  though,  I  wonder,  is  that  crowd  of 
nodding  heads  which  approved  so  heartily  of  the  shelv- 
ing of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  a  year  ago?  If  we  listen  at 
the  candle-lit  tables  in  the  Hotel  Mohawk,  I  fear  we 
shall  be  likely  to  hear  only  exclamations  of  approval, 
with  underneath,  perhaps,  a  little  undercurrent  of  envy. 
In  all  the  approval,  too,  there  will  be  but  the  ringing 
of  bells  for  this  boy's  success — not  a  voice  raised  for  the 
real  achievement. 

It  is  not  the  ability  to  write  a  play  which  may  be  the 
equal  of  Ibsen's  that  is  the  object  of  the  adulation. 
No!  He  will  be  very  rich!  A  successful  play  means 
money.  That  is  the  secret  of  it  all.  This  same  play 
might  be  published  and  acclaimed  to  the  skies  by  the 

•    •  r    r  •  IT  • 

critics  01  nve  continents,  but  it  many  copies  were  not 
sold  at  the  old  book  store  on  Ebenezer  Street,  these 
same  people  would  pass  our  Sammy  by  in  the  streets 
without  a  word.  Art  must  necessarily  be  low  in  a 
commercial  democracy;  but  mark  this,  it  is  not  the 
democracy  which  plays  the  deuce — it  is  the  adjective. 

That  Carrie  is  to  see  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  and 
not  a  new  Ibsen  born  again,  she  does  not  know  as  yet. 
The  world  of  ideas  and  emotions  has  not  yet  fallen 
into  settled  grooves  for  her,  with  signboards  plainly 
labelled  on  each  groove.  To-night  she  only  realizes 
that  her  Sammy  has  his  chance  to  succeed  at  last. 


144  THE  BALANCE 

Just  what  success  is,  she  has  never  analyzed.  There 
is  no  label  on  the  groove.  Instinct  has  great  play  at 
twenty-four. 

To  S.  Sydney  Tappan  success  seems  as  dream- 
like as  the  rehearsals  off  Broadway  did.  He  cannot 
realize  what  it  will  mean.  His  mind  cannot  leap  the 
one  vital  fact  that  this  girl  before  him,  half  child  she 
seems  to  him  still,  will  be  his  if  the  play  succeeds— 
his  alone,  to  love  and  own  in  passionate  surrender. 
The  tinder  of  her  soul  has  struck  fire  on  his  ever  since 
he  can  remember;  her  sympathy  now  transformed  to 
passion  at  their  lightest  touch.  He  cannot  gaze  at 
her  without  feeling  a  wave  of  desire  for  her  overwhelm 
him.  Carrie  has  wakened  the  sleeping  passion  of 
the  man  in  youth,  and  he  will  always  want  her. 

The  crowd  is  streaming  past  the  hotel  now,  however; 
late  diners  are  looking  anxiously  for  waiters  and  their 
checks,  while  the  downtown  clocks  are  pointing  a  trifle 
past  the  hour.  Melchester  has  an  almost  metropolitan 
look,  with  its  brightly  lighted  stores,  its  brilliant 
signs  and  street  cars,  its  hurrying  thousands  of  human- 
ity, bound  now,  the  vast  majority,  for  entertainment. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  gazes  at  them  as  he  and  Carrie 
walk  slowly  to  the  theatre  around  the  corner.  These 
are  the  hearts  he  will  thrill  to-night — thrill  with  those 
same  ideas  with  which  he  struggled  in  that  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street  room  with  the  cheerful  carpet! 

As  he  looked  back  on  that  night  afterward,  he 
realized  that  he  was  not  conscious  of  the  audience  at 
all,  after  the  first  curtain  slowly  rose.  He  was  con- 
scious only  of  Carrie;  the  murmur  of  the  audience  and 
rattling  of  programmes  a  background  for  the  symphony 
of  her  face — a  face  from  which  the  passion  has  faded, 
and  which  leans  forward  now  absorbed  in  the  mimic 
world  devised  by  the  man  beside  her.  It  is  the  Seventh 
Day  for  Sammy.  I  wonder  will  he  look  upon  his 
handiwork  and  pronounce  it  good  ? 

It  does  not  seem  possible  to  him,  however,  that  he 
really  wrote  this  play  which  he  is  seeing  now  for  the 


THE  BALANCE  145 

first  time.  The  thing  has  suddenly  sprung  to  life 
before  his  gaze,  the  breath  of  existence  swept  into  it 
by  this  first  audience  before  which  it  struts. 

Sylvia,  too,  seems  to  have  acquired  some  strange 
new  magnetism  which  holds  the  crowd  in  its  seats, 
and  makes  it  laugh  and  sigh  and  weep  in  tiny  gusts, 
as  a  wind  in  fall  sweeping  through  the  trees. 

Through  it  all,  too,  he  can  feel,  creeping  slowly,  the 
sensuousness  of  its  suggestion,  barely  sensed  at  first, 
mounting  higher  as  the  play  progre'sses  until  a  tiny 
spot  of  red  flames  in  the  cheek  of  each  self-conscious 
auditor,  and  no  one  moves  or  touches  his  neighbour 
lest  the  movement  seem  too  self-conscious  and  a  break- 
ing of  the  spell — a  spell  woven  by  this  voluptuous 
creature  on  the  stage,  who  seems  not  like  a  mere  woman 
but  some  incarnation  of  amorous  passion,  feeding  upon 
each  new  victim,  luring  on  each  new  dupe,  yet  pulsing 
with  the  life  and  grace  and  marvellous  attraction  of 
a  woman  all  the  while,  a  new  Cleopatra  of  the  Boule- 
vards, as  they  call  her  in  the  play,  her  mainspring  un- 
governable passion.  Good  heavens,  is  this  Sylvia 
Tremaine? 

In  Carrie's  soul  a  chill  cloud  of  horror  has  come 
slowly,  coldly.  Is  this  the  product  of  her  Sammy, 
these"  the  ideas  with  which  he  lives,  this  the  ideal  he 
would  instill  into  these  human  beings  in  the  crowd 
below  them  ? 

To  Sammy,  too,  there  has  come  a  great  uneasiness. 
He  feels  that  something  is  changing  in  this  girl  beside 
him;  yet  he  cannot  take  his  eyes  from  the  woman  on 
the  stage.  How  she  is  holding  this  audience  in  her 
hand!  Leading  them  skilfully,  artistically,  madly  to 
the  great  climax  in  the  last  act!  In  the  next  act,  he 
realizes  with  a  sense  of  blinding  fate.  Good  God,  is 
not  the  thing  too  strong?  Will  the  house  break  loose, 
or  will  Sylvia  hold  them  to  the  end,  past  the  gasping 
thrill?  In  his  mind  fear  for  his  offspring  struggles 
with  the  deathly  apprehension  that  is  creeping  on 
him  from  the  slender  girl  by  his  side. 


146  THE  BALANCE 

"I  must  see  Sylvia!"  he  says,  hoarsely,  as  the  cur- 
tain falls  upon  the  second  act,  and  the  audience  begins 
calling  for  the  author.  "I  think  she  is  overdoing  it. 
You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you,  please,  Carrie?" 

He  might  be  pleading  for  a  child. 

"Yes,  of  course,  Sammy,"  she  says  in  answer. 

And  he  has  gone  down  the  little  dark  hallway  to 
the  stage  back  of  their  box  before  she  can  control  the 
vast  sea  of  emotions  which  struggle  for  mastery  in  her 
being.  Is  this  Sammy,  her  Sammy,  and  she  the 
Carrie  she  has  always  known  herself  to  be?  What 
has  been  set  loose  to-night  in  this  humdrum  theatre 
in  which  she  has  seen  a  hundred  plays  before? 

In  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  mind  there  is  but  one  scene 
as  he  hurries  down  the  corridor,  the  sound  of  applause 
growing  fainter  behind  him.  It  is  of  Sylvia's  apart- 
ment on  Thirty-fourth  Street,  and  Sylvia  in  a  bathing 
suit  every  line  of  her  showing  forth.  She  has  meant 
nothing  to  him  in  the  apartment  because  his  mind  has 
been  filled  with  no  thought  such  as  is  holding  this 
great  audience  to-night.  What  will  she  be  upon  the 
stage,  in  view  of  what  has  gone  before  this  evening? 
Will  the  shock  be  too  great?  I  think  he  is  hardly  con- 
scious that  this  audience  of  which  he  thinks  really 
means  only  Carrie  to  him. 

He  knocks  upon  the  dressing-room  door,  and  Marie 
lets  him  in.  Sylvia  does  not  appear  until  some  time 
after  the  opening  of  this  third  act,  so  he  knows  she 
will  have  time  to  see  him.  With  a  great  effort  he 
controls  himself.  After  all,  she  has  been  merely  acting 
the  part  as  they  planned  it. 

"Hello,  Tappy,"  she  calls  gayly  from  her  mirror. 
She  is  dressed  in  a  hideous  old  green  kimono.  "Ex- 
cuse this  rag.  I  wear  it  to  mortify  my  soul.  It  kills 
the  star  to  get  too  conceited,  they  say,  Sydney,  and 
I  have  to  see  myself  in  the  glass  this  way." 

She  is  gay,  inconsequential,  he  sees.  The  thing  so 
far  is  a  success,  and  she  is  happy,  secure  in  final  victory. 

"How  is  it  going?"  she  asks. 


THE  BALANCE  147 

Sammy  sits  down  rather  heavily  upon  her  trunk. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  he  admits. 

"Wonderful,  but "  she  quotes.     She  turns  and 

looks  at  him  questioningly. 

"But  rather  strong,"  says  Sammy,  a  little  desper- 
ately. How  can  he  ever  convince  this  woman  of 
what  he  means?  What  does  he  mean  anyway? 

She  spreads  out  her  hands  characteristically. 

"Que  voulez  vous?"  she  laughs  lightly.  "Life  isn't 
for  infants,  Sydney  dear." 

"Canjt  we  tone  down  the  climax  in  this  act?v  he 
queries,  as  lightly  as  is  possible.  It  does  not  do  to  be 
too  serious  with  Sylvia. 

"Never!"  she  says  decisively.  "What  have  I  beer 
leading  up  to?" 

She  looks  at  him  suddenly  from  under  the  hair  she 
is  brushing.  She  does  not  allow  Marie  to  touch  her 
hair  for  a  performance. 

"What's  gotten  into  you,  Sydney?"  she  asks.  "Has 
Melchester's  provincialism  given  you  a  change  of 
heart?  Why,  they  are  waiting  for  that  gasp  out  there 
— and  they  won't  be  pleased  unless  they  get  it.  As 
well  leave  out  Svengali's  picture  from  'Trilby,'  or  Nora's 
exit  from  the  'Doll's  House,'  or  the  final  result  of  Jus- 
tice to  poor  Calder.  They  won't  get  it  unless  it's 
driven  home!" 

He  looks  at  her  hopelessly.  Artistically,  he  knows, 
she  is  right.  For  the  first  time  he  realizes  that  the 
idea  of  the  play  is  quite  unspeakable — that  is  why  he 
hates  to  drive  home  its  point !  Yet  the  thing  is  cleverly 
done.  He  is  surprised  himself  at  the  deftness  with 
which  he  has  hinted  and  Sylvia  has  carried  out  his 
hints.  It  will  be  a  knockout  in  New  York!  Even 
Melchester  has  been  snared,  he  sees;  just  why  is  he 
here,  anyway? 

"The  last-act  thirigs,  Marie,"  Sylvia  is  saying. 
"I'll  talk  to  you  in  a  minute,  Sydney.  I  am  never 
comfortable  until  I'm  ready  for  my  cue." 

How  can  the  thing  be  altered,  he  finds  himself  think- 


148  THE  BALANCE 

ing  as  Sylvia  adds  the  last  touches  to  her  toilette. 
Confound  it,  this  scene  is  just  the  point!  She  has 
snared  them  all,  to  fool  them! 

"Of  course,  we  will  get  down  the  banks  from  a  lot 
of  sappy  critics,  Tappy,"  she  is  saying,  now.  "But 
what  is  the  difference?  They  never  give  me  a  good 
line  anyway,  and  the  more  they  say  in  this  case,  the 
better  advertising." 

She  takes  a  lion  skin  from  the  trunk  beside  her. 

"I'm  not  going  to  put  that  skin  that  I  drag  off  the 
floor  around  me.  I'll  have  this  clean  one  behind  the 
screen,  and  put  it  on  instead.  This  one  will  really 
fit  me,  too,  like  a  dress." 

She  hands  her  kimono  to  Marie,  and  wraps  the  lion 
skin  about  her. 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  the  next  fashion,  Tappy!"  she 
exclaims,  like  a  child. 

"God  forbid!"  replies  Tappy,  with  a  laugh. 

In  his  heart,  however,  he  knows  what  her  appeal 
will  really  be  to  those  people  in  the  seats.  Physical 
passion,  roused  by  the  sight  of  her,  displayed  thus  to 
the  last  degree  of  immodesty.  There  are  many  such 
women  on  the  stage,  he  knows,  more  perhaps  in  musical 
comedy,  but  he  has  never  known  one  before  and  the 
gulf  between  the  real  Sylvia  Tremaine  and  the  part 
she  plays  before  the  public  is  so  vast  that  he  is  con- 
founded. He  can  never  tell  her.  It  is  success  for 
her,  as  well  as  for  him,  and  without  it  she  will  starve, 
or  work  in  a  department  store.  Commercial  success 
in  the  theatre! 

For  a  moment,  too,  he  is  strangely  stirred  by  her 
presence  so  close  to  him  that  she  seems  to  charge  the 
air  with  a  vital  human  electricity  which  makes  him 
tingle.  He  has  sense  enough  to  know,  however,  that 
such  a  spell  is  ruin  for  the  man  or  woman  who  comes 
beneath  its  charm.  Passion  to  most  of  the  world  is 
but  an  incident  of  a  few  passing  years;  but  to  its  vic- 
tims, a  lifelong  servitude  defeating  all  achievement. 
Sylvia,  too,  is  conscious  of  this  thrill,  making  her  for 


THE  BALANCE  149 

one  brief  second  wish  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms, 
and  overcome  him  with  her  perfumed  madness.  Then 
she  laughs  a  tiny,  bitter  laugh. 

"There  is  the  first  bell,  Tappy,"  she  says,  a  little 
uncertainly.  There  is  a  look  of  stifled  emotion  in 
her  eyes.  Once  she  could  have  loved  this  man,  before 
she  knew  the  world.  But  success  has  bought  her, 
and  she  will  give  herself  again  to  her  God  in  a  few 
minutes,  out  before  the  footlights.  "Good-bye,"  she 
adds. 

It  is  when  she  is  alone  with  her  maid  once  more, 
that  she  says  to  herself,  half  bitterly,  half  whimsically: 

"I  am  five  years  older  than  he  is,  anyway.  He 
wouldn't  like  me  very  long!" 

Her  God  has  made  her  cynical,  also,  with  the  ter- 
rible cynicism  which  seems  to  have  the  backing  of  ex- 
perience. The  cynicism  of  success! 

Out  in  the  box  meanwhile,  a  strange  new  loneliness 
has  been  tugging  at  Carrie's  soul.  Deep  down  within 
her  nature  she  has  dimly  recognized  that  this  is  not 
her  Sammy  who  has  written  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin,"  but  a  new  Sammy,  a  spotted  Sammy,  to  whom 
she  is  a  stranger,  and  who  is  a  stranger,  too,  to  her. 

Of  a  sudden  she  has  felt  all  alone.  A  queer  lump  has 
risen  in  her  throat.  Into  her  mind  has  come  the  vision 
of  her  father's  house — she  does  not  call  it  home  any 
longer — and  the  road  which  she  has  travelled  since 
the  night  Sammy  kissed  her  on  the  links  out  by  the 
river.  Can  she  travel  on  alone  now,  into  the  gray 
horizon  there,  without  him? 

Sammy,  Sammy,  I  wonder  you  cannot  see,  as  you 
come  back  into  the  box,  that  the  slender  girl  there  is 
breaking  her  heart  in  the  silence  she  will  not  shatter 
though  the  theatre  fall  in  pieces  about  her!  She  has 
come  too  far  along  that  road  ever  to  turn  back  now. 
She  will  go  on  until  she  dies.  Mrs.  Schroeder's  deter- 
mination has  become  character  in  her  daughter.  She 
always  finishes  everything  she  starts.  And  she  hates 
the  idea  of  this  play.  Ah,  if  only  sometimes,  Carrie, 


150  THE  BALANCE 

you  had  not  been  quite  so  certain  you  were  right!  I 
would  like  to  tell  you  that,  oh,  so  badly,  as  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  sits  down  beside  you  and  the  curtain  rises 
on  the  last  act.  It  never  pays  to  be  too  sure  at  first. 

As  she  sits  there,  however,  a  rising  current  of  remem- 
brance is  fast  becoming  a  raging  stream.  Things 
meaningless  of  themselves  are  beginning  to  coagulate, 
take  form,  and  at  last  stand  out  in  startling  distinct- 
ness to  her.  Through  it  all,  too,  there  runs  the  dim 
acknowledgment  of  this  woman's  charm — a  charm 
which  she  herself  can  never  wield,  but  would  scorn 
to  if  she  could. 

In  a  flash  she  sees  herself,  a  girl  in  a  small  inland 
city,  slender,  hardly  pretty — ah,  Carrie,  you  do  your- 
self injustice  now,  for  your  soul  is  in  your  face,  and  it 
is  beautiful! — with  a  limited  knowledge  of  life,  and  no 
great  talent  or  beauty  to  attract  and  hold  such  as  this 
Sylvia  Tremaine  possesses  so  abundantly.  No  wonder 
Sammy  has  been  attracted.  He  has  seen  her  con- 
stantly, been  with  her  week  by  week;  and  no  doubt 
she  has  felt  the  charm  of  him,  for  who  can  resist  him? 

Nearly  eight  months,  now,  too,  since  he  went  away. 
Eight  months !  And  New  York  is  not  really  far  away — 
not  so  far  that  a  great  love  or  effort  would  not  bridge 
the  gap.  In  her  soul  a  great  loneliness  wells  up,  though 
she  holds  back  the  tears  until  her  throat  is  aching  with 
the  pain.  After  all,  is  her  mother  right?  And  the  world 
but  a  place  to  be  lonely  in,  with  each  person  standing 
all  alone,  and  the  race  to  the  most  greedy? 

She  gazes  on  the  stage  at  the  entrancing  creature 
there  with  new  eyes,  now.  How  many  times  this  must 
all  have  been  rehearsed  before  no  eyes  but  Sammy's! 
In  her  heart,  too,  is  a  great  bewilderment.  How  could 
her  Sammy  have  written  this?  How  he  has  changed! 
Her  Sammy — no!  In  her  there  has  come  a  great  phys- 
ical revulsion  against  him,  against  his  ideas,  against 
this  Sylvia  Tremaine;  a  revulsion  that  makes  her  flesh 
creep,  though  she  cannot  define  the  reason  why  in 
words,  any  more  than  her  hatred  of  a  snake.  It  is 


THE  BALANCE  151 

instinctive,  elemental,  basic!  Through  the  fine  artistic 
shading,  the  charmingly  tinted  texture  of  this  play, 
there  is  something  that  is  horrible  to  her,  something 
she  loathes.  And  it  has  come  from  S.  Sydney  Tappan, 
the  Sammy  of  her  youth. 

For  a  moment  a  great  hatred  for  Sylvia  Tremaine 
springs  up.  It  is  she  who  has  called  forth  this  monster 
in  Sam  Tappan!  The  feeling  lives  but  a  brief  mo- 
ment. Sylvia  could  never  have  called  forth  a  thing 
which  had  no  existence.  It  is  Sammy,  after  all.  Miss 
Tremaine  is  only  interpreting.  Somewhere,  somehow, 
she  feels  that  she  herself  has  lost  him,  and  this  sensuous 
creature  on  the  stage  has  won.  In  her  mind  there  is 
no  doubt  of  her  diagnosis.  Dramatic  chameleons 
are  not  in  her  booth  of  character  exhibits.  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  has  changed,  and  there  is  but  the  one  explana- 
tion. A  woman  like  this  Sylvia  will  stop  at  nothing; 
and  she  has  not  stopped  at  Sammy. 

Poor  Carrie!  You  are  not  skilled  at  character  dis- 
section, nor  the  tinsel  world  of  drama,  and  your  warm, 
impulsive  heart  has  been  struck  a  chilling  blow  that 
calls  for  all  your  pride  and  strength  to  dissimulate. 
That  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  not  as  yet  found  his  soul, 
and  so  wields  his  pen  as  in  some  dramatic  mirror,  you 
never  will  believe  until  life  has  forced  home  to  you  the 
conviction  that  people  do  not  come  in  moulds,  but  are 
poured  forth  here  for  the  moulding  in  great  or  less 
degrees.  Providence  is  but  preparing  to-night  the 
moulds  you  both  shall  fall  in,  and  Sammy  is  very  soft. 

So  soft  that  he  can  forget  even  his  fear  for  a  moment 
as  the  curtain  falls  upon  the  last  act  and  the  audience 
remains  still  seated,  released  now  from  their  thralldom 
but  applauding  wildly  this  siren  whom  the  curtain  has 
shut  off  from  their  gaze,  but  whom  nothing  can  erase 
from  their  thrilled  imaginations.  She  has  risen  to  her 
climax,  surged  past  it,  and  gone  steadily,  relentlessly 
to  the  play's  dramatic,  frightful  end,  with  Fenwick's 
dead  body  across  her  scorned  one,  her  audience  a  vast 
sea  of  human  souls  stirred  to  their  very  depths. 


152  THE  BALANCE 

This  is  success,  indeed!  In  Sammy's  mind  there  is 
nothing  but  the  flush  of  victory  as  he  stands  bowing 
from  his  box,  still  denying  these  people  the  curtain 
speech  of  which  his  blind  flight  to  Sylvia's  dressing-room 
robbed  them  after  the  second  act.  He  has  no  words. 
The  whole  thing  is  more  dreamlike  than  ever,  a  slight 
touch  of  nightmare  added  now,  with  this  inability  of  his 
to  utter  a  word  of  thanks.  It  all  seems  like  Melchester 
gone  mad,  and  he  himself  leading  all  the  rest  with  an 
awakening  to  come  when  he  turns  back  into  the  box. 

Yes,  Sammy,  your  awakening  is  at  hand. 

For  it  is  a  strange  Carrie  who  rises  from  the  box  and 
makes  her  way  with  S.  Sydney  Tappan  through  the 
crowded  theatre  aisle  upon  the  side.  She  is  but  par- 
tially conscious  that  they  have  met  Dorothy  Alden 
in  the  foyer,  and  that  Dorothy  has  taken  Sammy  by 
both  hands  and  congratulated  him  upon  his  play's 
success. 

"And  your  Miss  Tremaine,  Sam!  She  is  perfectly 
wonderful !  You  must  bring  her  out  to-morrow  night ! " 

The  words  have  conveyed  hardly  any  meaning  to 
Carrie's  heedless  ears.  She  only  wishes  to  be  out  of 
the  building,  out  in  the  air,  away  from  this  place  of 
sham  and  sinister  make-believe,  out  where  she  can 
think.  She  hardly  notices,  either,  the  others  of  the 
eager  groups  that  crowd  around  S.  Sydney  Tappan, 
as  they  go  slowly  through  the  lobby,  and  wait  for  their 
taxicab.  There  has  been  no  mention  of  going  to  see 
Miss  Tremaine.  Only  as  they  get  in  and  the  starter 
closes  the  door  behind  them  does  she  get  a  glimpse  of  a 
face  that  she  remembers:  a  heavy  face  with  little,  blink- 
ing eyes,  which  looks  in  the  lowered  window,  and 
says: 

"As  sure  as  shooting,  Tappy,  wasn't  it?  She  always 
gets  them  over!" 

"Mr.  Friedman,  Sammy  says  in  explanation,  and 
then  silence  falls  between  them  as  they  sweep  through 
Main  Street,  and  up  the  shining  stretch  of  Washington 
Avenue,  wet  now  with  a  touch  of  falling  rain. 


THE  BALANCE  153 

There  has  been  no  question  of  supper  at  the  Hotel 
Mohawk,  ever.  Always,  they  have  planned  this  ride 
to  1 200  Washington  Avenue  alone  together — just  they 
two  to  taste  the  success  they  have  waited  for  so  many 
years.  Success!  Well,  they  have  it.  Even  Mrs. 
Schroeder,  at  supper  in  the  Mohawk,  acknowledges  it, 
and  she  is  the  court  of  last  appeal  in  this  particular 
case.  Success  is  theirs  to-night. 

I  wonder,  though,  why  they  are  so  silent.  Is  not 
Sammy  to  be  praised  ?  Or  are  these  tears  of  joy  which 
trickle  so  slowly  from  Carrie's  eyes,  buried  in  her 
hands?  Her  pride  has  all  vanished  now;  that  desire 
to  hurt,  which  is  so  strange  to  her  nature,  quite  gone. 
Carrie  is  but  a  girl,  and  she  has  recalled  the  letter  she 
wrote  him  not  so  long  ago  about  their  common  ideals 
and  aspirations.  They  are  all  that  make  life  worth  liv- 
ing to  her. 

For  a  moment  Sammy  is  aghast,  as  they  go  into  the 
living-room  where  he  used  to  call — though  it  seems  years 
ago  to-night.  She  is  weeping  openly.  Does  she  hate 
this  play  of  his  as  much  as  that  ? 

"Don't  you  see  why  I  care,  Sammy?"  she  cries, 
clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands.  "It  isn't  just  the 
play.  It  is  you.  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  do  it!  Be- 
cause it  isn't  you!" 

In  Sammy  there  is  an  extraordinary  mixture  of 
feelings.  The  successful  artist,  confused  and  mystified, 
is  struggling  with  the  heartache  which  the  sight  of 
Carrie's  sorrow  stirs  in  him.  He  cannot  stand  having 
his  creation  criticised  thus  harshly,  and  yet  he  feels 
dimly,  someway,  that  she  is  right. 

"It  is  just  a  play,"  he  says  hoarsely,  although  it 
seems  like  Use  majeste  to  belittle  it  so. 

He  cannot  tell  now  just  why  he  wrote  this  thing. 
It  has  not  been  entirely  for  the  dollars  in  it,  though 
he  craves  success;  perhaps  has  blinded  himself  to 
the  truth.  The  idea  has  appealed  to  his  dramatic 
imagination,  and  the  thing  has  unrolled  itself  from  his 
unconscious  pen.  These  thoughts,  which  seem  to  rouse 


154  THE  BALANCE 

Carrie  so  mightily,  are  but  the  thoughts  of  this  Lady 
in  the  Lion  Skin  inside  whose  brain  he  has  been  these 
last  few  months.  How  can  they  be  called  his  thoughts  ? 
He  realizes,  perhaps,  that  he  would  never  have  written 
it  had  he  not  gone  to  New  York,  and  met  Sylvia  Tre- 
maine.  He  has  only  realized  what  the  Lady  in  the 
Lion  Skin's  thoughts  might  be  after  knowing  Sylvia. 
Yet  who  will  say  that  Sylvia  is  such  a  person?  He 
knows  that  she  is  not.  It  is  her  imagination  on  the 
stage,  as  his  in  the  manuscript. 

"It  is  just  imagination,  Carrie,"  he  says,  again. 
"Don't  you  understand?" 

But  she  shakes  her  head.  In  her  mind  is  the  picture 
of  Sylvia  in  her  loathsomely  artistic  semi-nakedness. 
He  has  had  these  thoughts  from  somewhere.  Sylvia 
has  been  the  source. 

"You  had  to  think  it  before  you  could  write  it,"  she 
says.  It  is  all  quite  plain  to  her. 

In  Sammy's  mind  there  is  a  little  tiny  feeling  of 
revolt.  After  all,  the  play  is  a  success!  And  she  has 
not  had  one  word  for  that.  His  conceit  sticks  out  a 
little. 

"It  isn't  every  one  who  could  write  it,  after  they 
had  thought  it,"  he  cries,  nettled.  The  thing  is  good, 
he  knows — considered  as  a  piece  of  dramatic  construc- 
tion, almost  extraordinary. 

"But  it  is  what  you  think  that  matters  to  me,"  she 
answers. 

Sammy  is  stung  to  the  quick.  Why,  it  is  the  play 
that  should  matter! 

"How  do  I  know  what  I  think?"  he  cries.  "It  is 
my  characters  who  think,  not  I !" 

"But  you  have  to  think  for  them,  first,"  she  says. 
"So,  it  must  be  you!"  The  thing  is  too  plain  to  her. 
It  cannot  be  dodged. 

She  is  growing  quieter  now,  too,  beginning  to  see  this 
thing  for  what  it  is.  She  does  not  realize  that  between 
her  and  the  truth  lies  the  tortuous  forest  of  the  artistic 
imagination  through  which  no  man  has  ever  found  a 


THE  BALANCE  155 

track  quite  cleared.  She  can  only  conceive  of  a  play  as 
of  a  letter.  It  must  represent  what  one  thinks,  or  the 
writer  is  playing  false. 

"It  is  the  idea  of  the  play  itself,"  she  says.  "Its 
lesson,  its  moral,  its  manner  of  construction,  Sammy, 
not  just  what  one  character  or  so  has  said!  You  are 
glorifying  what  is  horrible  under  the  guise  of  presenting 
a  moral." 

In  her  heart  she  knows  that  he  never  could  have 
gotten  this  idea  from  her  and  it  is  essentially  an  idea  of 
woman !  That  is  what  hurts.  It  is  his  attitude  toward, 
his  thoughts  about,  women,  about  her.  Her  mind,  how- 
ever, is  not  quite  clear  yet.  She  only  knows  she  dis- 
trusts profoundly  the  impulse  which  produced  this  play. 
— an  impulse  which  must  represent  his  feeling  for  this 
Sylvia  Tremaine — a  feeling  which  has  been  non-existent 
until  he  set  eyes  upon  the  woman. 

Well,  it  is  the  habit  of  women  to  take  things  per- 
sonally; and  yet,  before  Heaven,  Carrie,  I  am  not  so 
sure  but  what  you  are  right,  as  you  sit  there  on  the  divan 
trying  to  be  fair,  in  spite  of  the  waves  of  feeling  which 
send  those  tiny  drops  of  water  to  your  eyes.  You  are 
trying  not  to  think  of  yourself,  too,  in  spite  of  what  you 
know  it  means;  and  for  one  I  think  you  are  succeeding. 
There  was  a  touch  of  Puritan  in  her  that  came  to  the 
surface  all  her  life,  when  it  seemed  most  unpleasant  for 
her,  and  made  her  decide  honestly. 

In  Sammy  there  is  a  feeling  of  desperation.  He  has 
done  this  thing  unthinkingly,  and  must  justify  it  now. 
Obstinately,  too,  his  mind  sticks  to  the  fact  that  Sylvia 
is  not  what  she  is  painted  in  Carrie's  mind  by  the  play. 
Neither  will  he  admit,  for  a  moment,  that  the  beast  of 
sensuousness  has  played  with  him  for  these  past  few 
months,  and  he  has  stultified  his  gift. 

Our  Sammy,  so  quick  and  keen  to  dissect  things  in  his 
plays,  will  not  turn  the  searchlight  on  himself  to-night. 
Rather  he  will  defend  himself  against  all  comers.  Car- 
rie could  have  chosen  any  other  thing  except  this  play 
of  his,  this  child  of  his,  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin,"  and. 


156  THE  BALANCE 

he  would  have  been  amenable  to  reason.  It  was  an  al- 
most maternal  instinct  in  the  man. 

Somewhere  in  his  mind,  too,  is  the  feeling  of  being 
misunderstood.  Only  the  artistic  mind  will  ever  be 
able  to  agree  with  him,  he  feels.  Great  heavens,  was 
Wagner  a  libertine  because  he  wro*te  the  Venus  scene 
in  Tannhauser?  The  comparison  is  not  the  same, 
he  will  admit,  yet  for  the  mind  that  produced  the  thing 
the  comparison  holds  good.  In  his  soul,  as  yet,  there 
is  no  feeling  of  culpability  for  the  base  idea  which  he  is 
implanting  in  the  nation's  heart.  To-night,  as  he 
argues  with  Carrie  in  Mrs.  Schroeder's  drawing-room, 
he  is  the  modern,  commercial  playwright  in  the  first 
flush  of  success. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  because  I  am  jealous  of  Miss  Tremaine 
herself,"  she  cries  painfully.  "Please,  you  believe 
that,  Sammy?  It  is  because  I  see  so  plainly  what  she 
has  made  of  you." 

The  intimation  that  he  is  not  master  of  his  fate  does 
not  please  S.  Sydney  Tappan. 

"She  hasn't  made  anything  of  me!"  he  retorts. 

"But  she  has!"  cries  Carrie.  "It  isn't  you,  it  can't 
be  you,  not  the  real  you,  Sammy.  She  has  made  you 
over  to  suit  her  and  her  ideas,  made  you  over  along  with 
the  play.  You  can't  see  the  truth  because  she  is  so 
physically  attractive.  But  it  is  the  idea  of  a  savage 
toward  his  women,  that  play — of  a  beast!  And  it 
makes  me  creep,  just  as  it  will  make  every  woman 
creep  who  has  self-respect!  And  I  hate  it,  hate  it, 
Sammy,  even  though  you  did  it — yes,  because  you  did 
it!" 

In  Sammy's  mind,  however,  is  the  picture  of  the 
applauding  thousands.  They  have  not  hated  it.  He 
falls  quiet  of  a  sudden.  Dimly,  he  senses  a  dramatic 
moment  close  at  hand.  He  must  be  prepared  to  play  a 
striking  part. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  says  quietly.  After  all,  this  is 
hardly  the  reception  a  successful  playwright  would  ex- 
pect from  his  fiancee.  He  feels  a  little  sorry  for  himself; 


THE  BALANCE  157 

so  sorry  that  he  is  almost  prepared  to  sacrifice  his  play 
and  Miss  Tremaine.  That  would  be  quite  heroic. 

But  Carrie  stretches  out  her  hand. 

"But  not  sorry  the  way  I  am.  Oh,  not  sorry  the 
way  I  am!" 

Her  real  emotion  makes  him  hesitate  a  moment. 

In  Carrie  a  terrible  struggle  is  going  on  because  there 
is  ever  present  the  fear  that  she  may  be  fighting  with  this 
Sylvia  Tremaine  for  her  lover.  She  does  not  realize 
that  the  power  of  many  people  combined  could  have 
influenced  her  Sammy  this  way,  that  he  is  still  at  the 
mercy  of  his  environment  as  truly  as  any  child  of  the 
slums.  It  is  why  her  pride  rises  up  so  suddenly,  only 
to  be  crushed  down  beneath  her  desire  to  do  what  she 
can  for  the  Sammy  she  will  always  love  though  he 
write  ten  thousand  plays  she  cannot  see. 

The  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece  has  struck  twelve- 
thirty  now,  but  neither  of  them  notices  the  gong. 

"It  is  my  career,"  he  is  saying  quietly.  "And  I 
can  write  only  what  comes  to  me.  It  is  the  situation 
that  appeals  to  me,  not  these  ideas!  How  can  I  help 
what  the  public  wants,  Carrie?  And  this  is  what 
they  want  in  New  York.  If  I  don't  write  it,  they  don't 
want  me.  There  are  plenty  more  who  will  write  it." 

He  cannot  bring  himself  yet  to  realize  that  she  can 
be  seriously  considering  asking  him  to  give  up  this 
success  of  his  because  of  her  idea.  Where  has  she  come 
by  it? 

"But  don't  you  see!"  she  cries.  "It  is  what  it 
leads  to  that  we  must  think  of,  Sammy.  We  can't 
get  happiness  this  way.  We  cannot  sell  all  our  ideals 
and  be  happy  afterward.  It  isn't  money  and  success 
that  make  you  and  me  happy.  We  know  that,  Sammy, 
now.  We  couldn't  be  happy  doing  that.  Let  them 
do  it  if  they  want  to."  Every  word  of  this  evening 
seems  to  make  a  physical  hurt  upon  her  heart.  "You 
have  it  in  you  to  be  great,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  know  you 
have,  Sammy,  and  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  trample  it 
all  in  the  dust." 


158  THE  BALANCE 

"They  don't  want  sermons  on  the  stage,  I  tell  you!" 
he  replies. 

"But  to  tell  it  wonderfully,  touchingly,  so  that 
people  will  be  moved  even  to  change  the  world !  It  is 
why  God  gives  each  one  of  us  some  gift,  I  think,  don't 
you?" 

"I  haven't  any  gift,"  he  says  uncomfortably. 

"The  most  wonderful  gift  of  all,  Sammy,  that  of 
influencing  other  people's  minds.  You  couldn't  sell 
that  for  success,  for  money — I  couldn't  bear  to  see 
you." 

"I  could,"  says  Sammy  brutally.  "I  have  seen 
the  world,  seen  poverty,  lived  in  it,  and  it  is  past  for 
me.  You  have  got  to  have  money  in  this  world  and 
age.  Let  some  one  else  ennoble  it.  I  want  success. 
I've  learned  my  lesson.  It's  money  that  counts. 
And  if  my  plays  can  get  it  for  me,  I'll  give  them  what 
they  want  as  long  as  I  am  able.  It's  a  business  just 
like  any  other.  You've  got  to  please  your  customers." 

"And  you  can  please  them  better  if  you  appeal  to 
their  better  selves!  Please  them  better  in  the  end!" 
cries  Carrie. 

"Not  with  Sylvia  Tremaine!"  he  cries.  "And 
Sylvia's  my  chance!"  And  could  have  bitten  off  his 
tongue  a  moment  later  for  saying  it.  It  is  the  truth. 

Carrie  draws  a  deep  breath. 

"She  may  be  yours,  Sammy,"  she  says  quietly. 
"But  she  is  not  mine,  and  never  will  be.  I  think 
more  of  myself  than  that." 

But  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  taken  the  plunge  now. 

"I  don't,"  he  says  calmly.  "She's  the  most  suc- 
cessful actress  on  the  stage." 

"  But  you  see,  my  measure  isn't  success,"  she  answers. 
Her  pride  has  come  to  her  assistance  now.  She  has 
lost  him,  but  he  will  never  know  the  heart-stab  it  has 
cost  her. 

"There  isn't  any  other  measure,"  says  Sammy.  His 
call  has  gone  its  full  length. 

She  shakes  her  head  with  a  little  smile  in  which  no 


THE  BALANCE  159 

humour  ever  lived.  They  might  better  understand 
one  another  now. 

She  rises  and  holds  out  her  hand. 

"I  think  our  little  dream  is  over,  Sammy,"  she  says 
bravely.  "We've  grown  up.  And  the  fairy  tale  has 
vanished.  Aren't  you  a  little  bit  sorry,  too?" 

But  into  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  eyes,  suddenly,  little 
mists  of  water  come. 

"It  hasn't  vanished!"  he  cries  vehemently.  "Not 
for  me — it  never  will." 

"You  don't  want  it  to,  but  it  has,"  Carrie  answers. 

There  is  a  little,  pitiful  look  in  her  eyes  that  only 
these  four  walls  that  have  seen  her  life  since  childhood 
can  ever  understand.  She  is  about  to  face  the  world 
alone,  once  more,  with  her  Heaven  in  lumps  of  clay 
around  her. 

"It's  behind  us,  and  we've  grown  out  of  it  at  dif- 
ferent ends." 

She  has  a  strange  feeling  that  even  these  walls 
about  her  may  not  be  substantial,  now;  all  her  life 
she  has  believed  heart  and  soul  in  this  thing  which  has 
been  taken  from  her  in  an  evening;  and  she  will  not 
think  of  the  result. 

In  Sammy  is  rising,  too,  a  slow,  dull  realization  of 
what  he  has  lost;  a  realization  which  overwhelms  him 
as  he  strives  to  gauge  it.  Into  his  mind,  in  some  dim 
way,  has  leaped  the  big  front  room  on  Hawthorne  Street 
and  the  swaying  of  the  curtains  in  the  wind,  and  his 
mother  lying  for  the  last  time  on  that  bed  he  never  will 
forget  until  he  dies — its  curved  brass  head  and  foot 
meaning  home  and  the  past  to  him,  forever.  Some- 
way, somehow,  though  he  cannot  describe  it,  he  knows 
that  he  is  losing  his  home  again — the  last  home  that  he 
knows,  in  Carrie's  heart. 

Ah,  Sammy!  I  could  wish  to-night  that  your  fear 
of  it  would  turn  you  from  your  path.  Turn  you  while 
you  are  picking  up  your  gloves  and  coat  in  the  old- 
fashioned  hall,  and  there  yet  is  time.  Turn  you,  to 
see  the  heartbreak  in  Carrie's  face,  and  her  tightly 


160  THE  BALANCE 

twisted  hands.  It  is  the  cross  of  Galilee  again,  to 
give  up  all  for  an  idea.  And  you  are  hammering  the 
nails.  Hammering  them,  still,  as  you  cross  silently 
and  take  her  hand. 

Yet  you  hardly  heard  her  faint  "Good-bye!" — it  was 
so  overborne  by  the  loud  laughter  of  the  Ironic  Gods! 

For  the  front  door  has  opened  now,  and  in  the  vesti- 
bule stands  Mrs.  Schroeder,  with  Mr.  Schroeder  be- 
hind, as  suits  the  play.  It  was  one  of  the  most  awful 
moments  of  Mrs.  Schroeder's  life.  But  it  did  not  show 
upon  her  face.  She  has  made  a  thousand  decisions, 
this  lady,  since  she  started  on  her  climb,  and  she  makes 
this  one  with  the  loud  applause  of  the  theatre  still 
ringing  in  her  ears. 

"Good-evening,  Sam!"  she  says  quite  graciously. 
"Congratulations."  And  is  gone  in  search  of  the 
fleeing  Mr.  Schroeder.  She  has  made  her  decision, 
chosen  her  new  standpoint,  now,  forever.  She  does 
not  know  as  she  hurries  upstairs,  a  faint  flush  of  red 
yet  on  her  cheek,  that  downstairs,  with  the  closing 
of  the  door,  her  daughter,  her  face  buried  in  the  pillows 
of  the  divan,  has  upset  the  world  for  her  once  more. 

Well,  it  is  the  great,  smashing  triumph — but  of  the 
biography  alone,  I  fear.  There  is  no  triumph  in  the 
strange,  set  face  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  as  he  strides 
past  the  billboards  of  the  darkened  theatre. 

The  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin! 
A  Play  by  S.  Sydney  Tappan. 

Sammy  has  not  won,  to-night,  after  all.  It  is  the 
Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin  who  has  won.  She,  perhaps, 
with  those  ideas  of  Mr.  Schroeder's  in  the  background. 
Our  Sammy  will  be  a  success,  now,  you  see. 


TOEING  a  further  account  of  the 
/~~\  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin,  and  the  pe- 
culiar flavour  of  some  triumphs — 
Telling,  too,  of  certain  letters  from  a 
Melchester  Settlement  and  their  effect 
upon  our  Sammy — A  closer  inspection 
of  our  friends  Ruby  and  Bantry  than 
has  been  allowed  us  before — With  a  first 
glimpse  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street 
of  the  vision  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  as 
the  stage  of  his  career  begins  to  darken 
a  little — Some  events  that  produce  a 
strange  silence  at  theSchroeders* — A  few 
tragic  moments  with  Sylvia — And  then 
the  tiny  shadows  of  some  unseen  catas- 
trophe casting  themselves  athwart  the 
pages  of  Sammy. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  WHICH  SAMMY  BECOMES  A  SUCCESSFUL  PLAYWRIGHT 
IN  GOTHAM,  AND  NARROWLY  MISSES  HAVING  ATHOUGHT 

IT  WAS  a  raging  Sammy  who  alighted  from  the  late 
afternoon  train  in  the  Metropolis  the  next  day.  He 
has  been  justifying  himself  all  day,  now,  ever  since  the 
train  left  Melchester  in  the  morning,  and  has  suc- 
ceeded at  last  in  getting  himself  into  the  proper  state 
of  mind.  He  has  not  called  up  Sylvia.  A  brief 
note  has  sufficed.  Business  of  a  pressing  nature  has 
called  him  to  New  York;  he  is  sorry  not  to  see  her; 
she  has  placed  him  in  her  everlasting  debt;  the  rest 
will  be  easy  now,  he  is  sure;  there  is  no  need  to  fear 
the  verdict  of  Broadway;  and  he  will  see  her  when  she 
comes  down  the  Hudson  at  the  end  of  the  week,  unless 
she  should  need  him  before.  A  brief  note  to  Dorothy, 
too,  saying  he  is  sorry  he  cannot  attend  the  promised 
party;  and  he  has  caught  the  eight-forty-two  for 
New  York. 

Our  Sammy  has  had  but  little  sleep  this  last  night. 
The  task  of  justification  has  been  more  difficult  than 
he  had  supposed.  Little  waves  of  emotion  have  crept 
in  and  upset  him  many  times  just  when  he  has  been 
sure  that  at  last  he  is  settled  in  his  mind.  Somehow, 
even  yet,  he  cannot  erase  from  his  memory  the  picture 
of  Carrie  on  the  divan,  with  her  twisted  hands. 

His  state  of  mind  is  all  that  he  could  ask,  however. 
He  is  raging  with  injustice.  Not  raging  enough  to 
withdraw  his  play,  of  course.  He  tells  himself  that  he 
owes  the  thing  to  Sylvia,  and  must  keep  it  out  for 
her  sake  even  if  he  were  convinced  that  he  should 

100 


164  THE  BALANCE 

withdraw  it.  And  he  is  not.  The  injustice  is  the 
thing  that  hurts.  To  say  that  he  has  sold  himself 
to  Mammon,  simply  because  he  has  written  a  successful 
play  that  a  young  lady  with  little  experience  of  life 
does  not  care  for!  It  is  preposterous! 

The  morning  papers  have  not  said  anything  like 
that.  "For  sheer  genius,  we  have  not  seen  the  like 
of  this  first  play  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  in  many  a  day," 
the  Democrat  Herald  has  said.  "The  marvellous  abil- 
ity of  Sylvia  Tremaine,"  is  commented  on  also.  And 
the  "daring  art"  of  the  Lion  Skin  scene,  "without  one 
word  that  could  be  construed  improperly!"  Oh, 
those  words!  Sammy  has  pored  over  them  a  thousand 
times  for  each  one — they  could  not  be  improper. 
And  the  Daily  Sun:  "The  majestic  lesson  of  this 
study  in  feminine  character  is  profoundly  set  forth! 
The  truth  which  daily  surrounds  us  is  here  bared  to 
our  gaze  quite  mercilessly,  with  a  touch,  however,  as 
clear  and  distinct — we  were  about  to  say  as  beautiful 
— as  a  cut  diamond!"  And  later:  "S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan's  artistic  vision  has  gone  to  the  root  of  the  matter 
with  almost  superhuman  insight.  Only  G.  Bernard 
Shaw,  among  contemporaries,  has  pointed  a  keener 
moral.  Those  who  saw  but  a  scantily  clad  lady  upon 
the  stage  in  that  final  scene  which  gives  the  play  its 
name,  and  which  will  rank  with  the  best  efforts  of 
Brieux,  Sardou,  or  Granville  Barker,  have  indeed  but  a 
surface  glimpse  of  things.  It  is  but  the  outward 
necessary  symbol  for  the  profound  though  perhaps 
unpalatable  truth  which  the  play  drives  home — the 
wages  of  sin,  however  attractive,  is  indeed  death!" 

The  reporter — I  beg  pardon — the  critic  for  this  Daily 
Sun  is  given  over  a  trifle  to  the  deadly  platitude  I 
fear;  but  the  applause  has  been  sweet  to  our  Sammy's 
ear.  He  is  surprised,  also,  to  find  these  artistic  apolo- 
gists for  his  Lion  Skin  scene.  He  is  clever  enough  to 
realize  that  this  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  make  the 
thing  a  complete  success. 

All  the  world  will  come  if  the  play  but  have   a 


THE  BALANCE  165 

purpose,  and  still  allows  Sylvia  to  do  without  her 
clothes! 

What  will  Carrie  say  when  she  reads  these  notices 
this  morning,  he  wonders? 

Well,  Carrie  has  said  nothing.  She  has  read  them 
with  little  quizzical  frowns  wrinkling  her  forehead. 
They  but  confirm  her  opinion  of  the  Democrat  Herald. 
The  critic  for  the  Sun  she  knows,  and  does  not  care  to 
read  what  he  has  said.  He  has  confided  in  her  once 
that  a  little  vaudeville  in  Grand  Opera  would  lighten 
up  the  gloom;  but  has  had  a  vaudeville  sketch  refused 
since  then,  and  now  goes  in  for  higher  thought  and 
William  Winter  when  his  copy  gets  behind.  So  that 
she  does  not  think  his  criticism  will  be  worth  much. 

She  has  risen  this  morning  with  just  the  tiniest  of  lumps 
in  her  throat.  Will  Sammy  call  her  up,  perhaps?  It 
has  been  her  only  thought  as  she  dresses,  and  comes  to 
the  table  to  read  the  criticisms.  It  has  not  occurred 
to  her  yet  what  her  mother  will  say  when  she  finds  out 
the  truth. 

Mr.  Schroeder  has  been  occupied  so  far  with  the  stock 
market  page,  but  he  puts  it  down  for  his  coffee,  as 
Carrie  comes  in,  with  a  vague  sense  that  he  is  neglecting 
something.  He  has  slept  through  a  great  deal  of  the 
play  the  night  before;  through  most,  if  the  truth  be 
told,  except  the  last-act  scene.  He  recollects  now  that 
his  daughter  here  must  have  been  vitally  interested  in 
the  thing's  success.  He  is  a  strange  father,  this  Mr. 
Schroeder.  He  has  been  so  accustomed  all  his  life  to 
viewing  his  offspring  as  incompetents,  that  he  does  not 
always  remember  now  to  treat  them  and  their  ideas 
and  aspirations  with  the  respect  that  reality  demands. 
Somehow,  he  still  retains  the  impression  that  they  are 
all  playing  at  life.  Business  is  the  only  real  and  vital 
existence  there  can  be.  Even  stocks  are  a  light  re- 
laxation. 

"Pretty  strong,  wasn't  it?"  he  volunteers.  He  is 
referring  to  the  play. 

Carrie  nods  her  head. 


166  THE  BALANCE 

"Yes,"  she  answers. 

"Well,  it  will  go,  all  right  enough,"  he  says.  His 
manner  is  what  one  might  expect  of  Will  Shakespeare 
to  some  modern  lesser  dramatist.  "That's  what 
they  want.  Stuff  with  a  little  spice!" 

Suddenly  the  really  interesting  side  of  playwriting 
occurs  to  him. 

"How  much  does  young  Sam  Tappan  get  out  of 
that  a  night,  do  you  suppose?" 

It  is  probably  the  first  time  he  has  ever  asked  for 
information  from  his  daughter.  Carrie  shakes  her  head. 

*'I  don't  know,"  she  answers.    "I  didn't  think  to  ask." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Schroeder  cannot  believe  his  ears. 
Did  not  think  to  ask!  Where  was  she  all  evening?  He 
is  saved  from  complete  collapse,  however,  by  his  wife, 
who  has  entered  the  dining-room  in  time  to  hear  the 
question  and  its  answer.  Curiosity  has  roused  her 
from  her  bed  an  hour  earlier  than  usual. 

"You'll  learn  to  ask,  quick  enough,"  she  says, 
acidly,  "after  you  are  married." 

There  is  no  halfway  station  in  Mrs.  Schroeder's  mind. 
Her  daughter  either  does  not  speak  to  this  Sam  Tappan, 
or  else  she  is  about  to  marry  him. 

The  humour  of  the  reversal  of  form  does  not  escape 
Carrie.  She  can  even  smile  a  little,  as  she  answers, 
though  it  is  an  odd  little  smile. 

"We  aren't  going  to  be  married,  thank  you,"  she  says 
steadily.  At  least  she  will  never  let  them  know  the 
depth  of  her  feeling  on  the  subject. 

Her  mother  stares  at  her  as  at  some  escaped  lunatic. 

"Well,"  she  says.     "For  the  Lord's  sake,  why  not?" 

Is  there  no  end  to  the  idiocy  of  this  girl  ?  That  she 
herself  has  changed  she  does  not  consider  at  all  strange. 
She  has  had  very  good  reason.  The  young  man  ap- 
parently will  be  able  to  support  her  daughter  now,  and 
give  her  what  she  wants;  a  prime  requisite  in  a  husband 
these  days  of  high  prices  in  the  stores.  That  her 
daughter  may  have  good  reason,  too,  she  does  not  con- 
sider for  a  moment.  The  first  idea  which  always  pre- 


THE  BALANCE  167 

sented  itself  to  Mrs.  Schroeder,  in  any  human  affair,  was 
that  the  person  was  a  fool. 

"We  have  agreed  to  differ,"  Carrie  answers  quietly. 

"Over  what?"  her  mother  cries. 

Mr.  Schroeder  is  looking  at  his  paper  again.  This 
sounds  like  a  row  to  him.  He  will  not  be  involved. 
But  Carrie  does  not  answer  for  a  moment.  This  table 
is  the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any  one  will  ever 
understand. 

"  Excuse  me,  mother,"  she  says  then,  quietly.  "  We've 
decided  not  to  discuss  it.  Do  you  mind?" 

And  she  leaves  the  table  and  the  room,  before  the 
tears  can  come  into  her  eyes  and  betray  her  to  this 
family  in  whom  she  never  can  confide. 

In  Mrs.  Schroeder's  eyes,  however,  despite  the  mount- 
ing anger  induced  by  the  knowledge  of  her  useless 
change  of  ground,  there  is  a  strange  new  light.  For  the 
first  time  she  has  realized  that  she  is  a  stranger  to  her 
daughter;  and  the  knowledge  is  not  sweet.  In  spite  of 
her  hardness,  she  is  a  mother  still.  And  this  girl  who 
has  just  left  the  room  to  keep  her  sorrow  to  herself  was 
once  a  child  within  her  arms.  Can  it  be  that  she  herself 
has  failed  in  her  duty?  An  idea  no  sooner  entertained 
than  shown  to  the  door  by  Mrs.  Schroeder.  She  has 
done  her  best.  Carrie  has  always  been  a  trifle  odd! 

But  does  she  mind  this  calm  dismissal  of  this  im- 
portant subject  by  her  daughter  ?  Of  course  she  minds ! 
She  is  dying  with  curiosity  to  know  the  reason  for  the 
sudden  catastrophe  before  Carrie  has  even  reached  the 
stairs. 

Well,  you  had  best  prepare  yourself  for  resignation, 
Mrs.  Schroeder,  because  you  will  never  understand; 
would  not,  indeed,  if  the  explanation  were  to  be  given 
you  this  morning — which  it  is  not. 

In  only  one  mind  in  the  house  is  there  unquestioned 
loyalty  for  Carrie.  Annie  will  never  question  this  action 
of  hers,  even  though  it  is  directed  against  Sammy. 
Annie  has  lived  these  five  years  with  the  Schroeders 
now,  and  it  has  been  sufficient  to  form  her  opinions. 


168  THE  BALANCE 

Whatever  Carrie  does  is  right.  This  disagreement  is 
only  temporary;  there  can  be  no  one  like  Sammy;  and 
there  is  but  one  Carrie.  What  a  strange  world  if  ser- 
vants told  every  one  the  truth !  Annie  is  the  only  one 
who  will  ever  know  the  real  reason  for  this  disagreement, 
though  even  to  her  it  will  always  be  a  hazy  and  strange 
affair. 

In  the  upstairs  hall,  now,  Carrie  is  sitting  by  the  tele- 
phone, a  little  queer  look  in  her  eyes.  She  has  just 
called  the  Hotel  Mohawk,  and  they  have  informed  her 
there  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  checked  out,  and  left 
his  New  York  forwarding  address.  He  has  gone! 

For  a  moment  she  could  wish  she  had  not  called.  It 
has  been  a  comfort  to  feel  that  he  was  still  within  call, 
in  the  same  city,  and  that  if  she  would  she  could  still 
take  back  all  that  she  has  said.  Take  it  back!  She 
realizes,  with  a  tiny  shiver,  that  it  is  not  a  thing  one  can 
take  back,  any  more  than  one  can  change  the  colour  of 
one's  hair  or  eyes.  These  are  basic  convictions  which 
she  and  S.  Sydney  Tappan  have  been  expressing  for  the 
first  time;  and  there  is  no  change  possible.  Is  this  what 
they  mean  by  incompatibility  of  temperament?  She 
has  always  conceived  of  that,  somehow,  as  meaning 
throwing  things!  Perhaps,  after  all,  there  are  worse 
missiles  than  ornaments  to  hurl. 

Of  a  sudden,  the  list  of  entertainments  to  which  she 
has  been  looking  forward  shrink  again  to  that  dull  gray 
which  has  been  for  her  the  prevailing  colour  of  society 
since  Sammy  went  away.  Will  this  be  the  colour  al- 
ways now;  her  life  a  monochrome  in  streaked  drab? 
She  realizes  with  a  renewed  force  how  out  of  place  she  is: 
these  things  of  wealth,  with  which  she  is  surrounded, 
mean  nothing  to  her,  never  have,  in  fact;  in  spite  of  her 
ability,  as  phrased  by  her  mother,  to  always  pick  the 
most  expensive  thing — they  are  without  shape  or  sem- 
blance to  her.  What  a  pity  some  one  else  could  not 
have  had  her  place  in  the  world!  When  her  one  en- 
deavour seems  to  be  only  a  ceaseless  effort  to  escape  the 
good  things  which  fortune  has  heaped  up  for  her;  to 


THE  BALANCE  169 

escape,  not  because  she  does  not  appreciate  how  favoured 
she  must  be  in  comparison  to  most  of  humanity,  but  be- 
cause she  resents  trie  world  they  create  around  her — a 
world  of  things  with  but  one  inspiration,  the  gathering 
of  more. 

It  is  not  the  first  time  that  she  has  rebelled  against  this 
wall  of  dead,  intangible  materialism,  feeling  her  very 
spirit  overborne  by  this  weight  of  things,  mere  things; 
all  chance  of  sharing  in  the  real  soul  of  the  world  denied 
her  by  a  mass  of  shoddy  in  which  the  only  splendour  is 
the  price  tag,  the  only  strength  the  price.  Things! 
Or  is  it,  after  all,  the  narrow  spirit  behind  the  things 
against  which  she  is  moved  so  to  rebel?  And  could 
these  same  things  be  glorious,  shining  with  the  promise 
of  a  great  splendour  to  come?  Things!  The  fruit,  in 
this  age,  not  of  real  achievement,  but  of  greatly,  mag- 
nificently calculated  selfishness,  the  mainspring  of  the 
modern  world.  If  of  real  achievement,  would  she  feel 
the  same  ?  There  can  be  no  inherent  wrong  in  the  piled- 
up  labour  of  the  centuries;  it  is  not  dulling  to  the  spirit 
to  ride  in  motor  cars,  all  mighty  advocates  of  the  healing 
balm  of  poverty  to  the  contrary.  And  yet,  this  girl  on 
Washington  Avenue  knows  that  her  family  has  achieved 
what  modern  society  calls  a  dazzling  success;  and  the 
success  has  ruined  them.  Is  there,  indeed,  any  one 
who  knows  more? 

In  New  York,  Sammy  is  tasting  this  morning  the  first 
little  fruits  of  his  victory,  and  in  spite  of  certain  mem- 
ories they  are  sweet.  He  does  not  know  yet  that  there 
is  but  one  kind  of  success  whose  fruit  will  not  turn  bitter 
in  the  mouth,  although  the  tree  is  hard  of  cultivation. 
He  only  sees  himself  lifted  from  the  ruck  of  mediocrity, 
the  hard  rut  of  poverty,  which  seemingly  runs  on  for- 
ever on  the  road  of  industry;  sees  himself  out  at  last,  and 
up  where  he  can  breathe  the  balmy  airs  of  the  woods  and 
flowers  of  pleasure.  And  he  is  glad. 

It  is  four  days  later,  while  he  is  still  sulking  over  that 
interview  with  Carrie,  that  a  letter  from  Ric  comes  to 
the  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  room.  He  will  move 


170  THE  BALANCE 

from  here  soon  now,  he  is  thinking,  as  he  opens  the  en- 
velope, in  the  willow  chair  beside  the  bureau  with  the 
cracked  glass.  How  long  ago  all  that  first  part  of  his 
existence  here  seems!  And  yet  he  is  the  same,  and  in 
the  same  room  where  once  he  and  Ric  bargained  for  the 
weekly  rental,  while  his  five  hundred  dollars  buoyed 
them  up.  You  are  not  to  leave  this  room  just  yet, 
however,  Sammy.  It  is  to  be  the  most  important  spot 
in  all  your  life.  So  keep  it  this  morning,  a  little  longer, 
just  for  old  times'  sake  if  nothing  else.  You  will  need 
it  in  the  future,  the  not  very  distant  future,  either!  Ric 
has  written: 

"Dear  Old  Tappy,  your  telegram  has  put  great  joy  into  the  camp 
of  'The  Honeymooners' — meaning  Ruby  and  yours  truly. 

"You  lucky  dog!  I  always  knew  you  had  it  in  you  even  back 
in  the  days  of  the  Dutch  Reformed  Church — God  bless  their  narrow 
souls!  I  would  have  given  up  all  my  feasts  on  this  trip  to  have 
been  in  Melchester  with  you  and  slapped  old  Schroeder  on  the 
back.  Good  God,  do  you  suppose  we  are  really  pulling  out  of 
poverty,  after  lo,  these  many  years  ? 

"It  seems  a  year  since  I  was  on  Broadway;  and  had  crossed  the 
world  since.  At  least  wait  until  I  return  before  you  are  married. 
I  can't  see  now  what  there  is  to  stop  you.  'Your  Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin'  ought  to  be  a  sure  thing  from  now  on,  and  this  old  devil  of 
an  act  seems  destined  to  go  on  forever.  We're  striking  through  to 
Denver  to-morrow,  and  I  certainly  am  glad.  I  have  a  great  longing 
to  see  old  New  York  and  you  again.  Oh,  for  some  of  those  Ricotti 
evenings,  Tappy!  We  didn't  have  enough  of  them,  by  far!  I  could 
almost  find  it  in  me  to  shed  a  silent  tear  for  Lyric  Hall  to-night. 

"I  have  been  thinking  over  some  stuff  lately,  and  I  wish  you 
would  turn  over  in  your  mind  a  libretto  for  a  musical  act  to  run 
about  twenty-five  minutes.  I  think  we  could  get  it  on  the  big 
time  as  easily  as  this  one.  A  real  bang-up  tabloid  light  opera. 
I  have  a  real  opera  in  the  back  of  my  head,  too,  that  is  going  to 
come  out  one  of  these  days  if  I  have  to  go  to  Vienna,  and  become 
a  foreigner  to  put  it  over.  Your  industry  appals  me!  You  must 
have  been  burning  the  midnight  oil  these  last  few  months. 

"  Does  that  poor  opera  of  ours  ever  stir  in  its  shroud  ?  I  won- 
der, would  Kane  give  me  a  musical  show  now?  Good-bye,  and 
be  careful  of  your  Sylvia  Tremaine!  Her  picture  shows  a  roguish 
eye!  Oh,  ho!  What  says  Carrie  and  her  honourable  parents, 
now? 

"Yours, 

"Ric. 


THE  BALANCE  171 

"P.  S.  Ruby  and  I  are  not  engaged  yet.  It  isn't  however — I 
whisper  this — it  isn't  my  fault.  Semper  Mutabile  Femina  Est! 
or  better,  La  Donna  e  mobile!  Oh,  what  an  educated  man  that 
Ricorton  is!  And  so  tall  and  handsome.  Farewell. 

"Ric." 

Sammy  puts  down  the  letter  with  a  little  smile  at  the 
gayety  of  Ricorton.  In  his  heart,  however,  there  is  a 
little  pain  called  forth  by  these  happy-go-lucky  remarks 
of  the  once  sad-faced  musician.  Bohemia  agrees  with 
Ric.  Somehow,  he  feels,  he  himself  has  lost  Bohemia. 
Is  it  that  the  future  has  lost  its  promise  because  he  has 
succeeded?  Or  that  Ricotti's  and  Bohemian  dinners 
are  good  accompaniments  of  struggling  ambition,  but 
not  its  substitute?  He  cannot  live  and  write  plays 
simply  to  dine  better  and  more  often.  What  is  it,  ne 
wonders,  that  he  wants  from  life?  In  some  way,  the 
sense  of  achievement  to  which  he  has  always  looked  for- 
ward to  satisfy  his  soul  seems  to  have  lost  its  flavour. 
Must  achievement  always  be  in  the  future  to  really 
satisfy?  Or  is  it  that  there  are  different  kinds  of 
achievement  and  this  kind  is  not  just  what  he  wants? 
Has  Carrie  spoiled  this  success  for  him  or  is  all  success  as 
hollow — indeed,  is  there  any  such  thing  as  success  ? 

He  will  have  quite  a  fair  income  now,  of  course.  Well, 
he  will  not  forget  Ricorton.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
Ricorton  and  his  encouragement  in  Melchester,  he 
might  never  have  come  to  New  York  at  all;  never  have 
met  Matson  and  through  him  Sylvia  Tremaine.  Ric's 
ability  to  read  at  sight  has  changed  the  lives  of  them 
both.  All  that  he  can  do  for  Ric  he  will  do  gladly. 
Poverty  has  tested  his  friends,  and  Ric  and  Carrie  alone 
have  stood  the  test. 

Carrie!  He  rises  abruptly  from  his  chair  and  makes 
ready  to  go  out.  He  does  not  care  to  think  of  her  and 
their  relations.  Why,  he  thought  that  was  all  settled! 
And  a  chance  letter,  a  chance  thought  has  brought  it  all 
back  raging  in  his  soul.  Will  she  write  to  him  at  all,  he 
wonders?  Or  is  it  all  to  end  just  like  this,  while  they 
drift  apart  in  silence?  Of  a  sudden  he  realizes  that  he 


172  THE  BALANCE 

cannot  put  her  from  his  life;  she  has  been  part  of  it  too 
long;  will  remain  of  it  until  he  dies.  Well,  he  must  fol- 
low his  own  path  notwithstanding.  There  is  no  other 
way  for  him.  And  he  goes  out  quickly  to  the  Lambs' 
Club  as  if  a  shadow  were  at  his  heels. 

It  is  the  next  day  that  Sylvia  greets  him  at  her  apart- 
ment. 

"You're  in  disgrace,  Sydney,"  she  says,  half  humour- 
ously, half  in  earnest,  as  he  comes  in.  "You  write  a 
play  for  me,  and  I  put  it  on  before  the  old  home  Knockers' 
Club,  and  you  rush  back  of  the  curtain  and  say,  '  Don't 
you  think  they're  going  to  blush  ?'  and  rush  out  again, 
and  I  don't  see  or  hear  from  you  again  for  five  days  ex- 
cept a  perky  little  note  about  some  fishy,  transparent 
business  in  New  York.  For  shame,  Sydney!  I  am 
angry.  Your  Carrie  could  spare  you  for  one  second,  I 
should  think!" 

She  looks  at  him  quite  steadily.  She  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  being  neglected,  and  the  experience  is  novel — 
besides  not  highly  flattering  to  her  vanity. 

"I  haven't  seen  Carrie, either," Sammy  retorts, sitting 
down  before  the  fire.  He  is  thinking,  perhaps,  too  ex- 
clusively of  himself. 

Sylvia  makes  a  little  face. 

"I'm  not  in  love  with  you,  Conceit,"  she  says.  "It  is 
Carrie's  business  whether  you  see  her  or  not.  That 
doesn't  interest  me.  You  haven't  been  to  see  me!  or 
congratulate  me,  or  say  anything!  I  like  being  patted 

on  the  back  as  well  as  any  one.     You're  a  pig,  Sydney 

T>j 
appan. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  says  contritely,  "I  have  been 
very  miserable." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  answers.  "You  didn't  die — and 
that  is  the  very  least  you  could  do,  with  that  kind  of  an 
excuse." 

"I  don't  mean  that  I  was  sick!"  he  says  hastily. 

"You  might  have  had  the  grace  to  be  even  that!"  she 
retorts.  "I  might  have  overlooked  your  behaviour 
then." 


THE  BALANCE  173 

"I've  been  miserable  over  you,"  he  says.  "It's  all 
been  your  fault!" 

She  looks  at  him  suspiciously. 

"I  don't  believe  it!" 

"It's  the  truth,"  he  replies  humbly. 

She  stands  up. 

"It  isn't  the  truth,"  she  says.  "Go  home,  Sydney. 
I  won't  have  it.  Either  the  real  truth,  or  else  you  go!" 

"On  my  honour,"  he  says  seriously.  "It  is  the 
truth." 

She  claps  her  hands  suddenly. 

"You  fell  in  love  with  me  in  the  bathing  suit!"  she 
cries. 

"I  saw  you  in  that  before,"  he  reminds  her. 

"So  you  did,"  she  says.  She  looks  at  him  a  moment. 
"You  must  be  made  of  stone,  Sydney.  Don't  you  like 
me  just  a  little?" 

He  nods  his  head. 

"I  do,"  he  says.     "I  never  pretended  otherwise." 

"I  am  quite  good  looking,"  she  says  modestly. 
"Tell  me,  was  Carrie  jealous?" 

He  considers  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  says.  Sylvia's  face. falls.  "But  she  didn't 
like  the  play." 

"You  mean, she  didn't  like  me  in  it!"  she  cries.  "She 
was  jealous!  Oh,  and  I  never  even  met  her!  You  are  a 
pig,  Sydney.  I  suppose  you  gave  her  the  impression 
that  I  was  entranced  with  you!" 

"No,"  he  answers.  "She  said  you  had  made  me  over 
to  suit  yourself,  until  I  was  as  willing  to  sell  myself  for 
success  as  you  were — in  fact,  had!" 

"She  said  that!"  Sylvia  says,  with  a  little  gasp.  She 
screws  her  face  up  into  a  little  knot  as  she  thinks.  Then 
she  turns  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan  again. 

"Well,"  she  says  cheerfully,  "I  guess  she's  right.  I 
thought  you  said  she  was  just  a  girl." 

"That's  all  she  is,"  retorts  Sammy  in  an  injured  way. 
Is  Sylvia,  too,  going  to  agree  with  Carrie  now? 

Sylvia  shakes  her  head. 


174  THE  BALANCE 

"She  is  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,"  she  says  with 
a  little  laugh. 

"Thank  you,"  says  Sammy. 

She  considers  him  again. 

"Was  it  serious?"  she  asks. 

"Yes,"  replies  Sammy.  "Quite.  In  fact,  we've 
broken  off." 

"What!"  cries  Sylvia  in  disbelief.  "Because  of  a 
play?" 

"That  is  the  reason  I  didn't  see  you.  I  came  down  to 
New  York  immediately."  He  hesitated.  "You  see, 
the  flavour  was  out  of  the  triumph,  somehow." 

"Oh,  I'm  the  pig,"  she  says  remorsefully.  "I  am 
sorry." 

She  hesitates  for  a  moment. 

"People  with  priggish  ideas  are  usually  quite  unbear- 
able," she  says  at  last.  "It's  just  conceit,  in  a  way; 
so  provincial — everything  is  just  a  matter  of  experi- 
ence." 

"Carrie  wasn't  priggish,"  says  Sammy  honestly.  He 
cannot  bear,  strange  as  it  is,  to  hear  Carrie  criticised 
either.  "I  don't  know  but  what  she's  right." 

Sylvia  stares  at  him  in  astonishment. 

'Then  what's  the  row,  my  dear  boy?"  she  asks. 

"I  think  it  is  because  I  can't  do  without  success,"  he 
answers  slowly.  "But  I  can't!" 

Sylvia  shudders. 

"Poverty  always  means  being  dirty  to  me,"  she  says, 
stretching  out  her  silken  ankles.  "That's  why  I  always 
keep  myself  scrubbed  within  an  inch  of  my  life!  I 
couldn't  stand  a  dirty  saint,  could  you?" 

"No,"  he  says.  "I've  been  through  poverty,  and  it 
isn't  pleasant." 

Poor  Sammy.  Because  he  has  lost  some  money,  and 
so  has  had  to  deny  himself  a  few  things,  he  thinks  he  has 
been  through  poverty.  He  cannot  conceive  to-day, 
either,  of  any  kind  of  success  which  allows  one  to  keep 
one's  soul.  His  difficulty  is  that  success  means  a  great 
deal  of  money  to  him — money,  and  nothing  else.  He 


THE  BALANCE  175 

does  not  know  that  to  all  the  really  great  successes  the 
money  has  been  but  incidental. 

Sylvia  stares  into  the  fire. 

"Well,"  she  says,  "I've  made  money — and  I  haven't 
found  much  happiness.  I  am  happy  when  I  am  on  the 
stage — except,  perhaps,  in  scenes  like  our  bathing  suit 
one.  I  feel,  then,  that  I  am  degrading  my  art.  That  is 
all  that  I  have  found  out,  Sydney.  No  one  is  happy  un- 
less they  are  doing  the  best  work  that  is  in  them." 

"It  is  what  Carrie  meant,  I  suppose,"  says  Sammy 
unhappily. 

"It's  true,"  Sylvia  says,  in  a  low  tone.  "Any  chorus 
girl  can  appear  in  a  bathing  suit.  Well,  I  am  only  a 
glorified  chorus  girl,  I  think.  I  was  one  once."  She 
laughs  a  bitter  laugh.  "That's  the  way  I  got  my  start. 
The  manager  picked  me  for  a  Circassian  slave,  and  I  ap- 
peared in  a  veil — and  little  else.  I  could  have  had  a 
better  part  right  away  if  I  had  wanted  to  stand  for  him. 
But  that's  my  dead  line.  I  have  sold  everything  else 
for  success.  I  want  something  left  that  I  can  give  for 
love." 

She  ridicules  the  world,  this  Sylvia  Tremaine,  and  yet 
inside,  in  her  strange  way,  she  is  an  idealist.  All  people 
are,  if  you  can  but  find  the  spot. 

She  realizes  now,  however,  that  she  is  talking  too  in- 
timately to  Sydney  Tappan;  is  in  danger,  indeed,  of 
giving  her  inside  beliefs  away. 

"Oh,  it's  all  theory,"  she  cries  impatiently.  "I  wish 
that  I  could  believe  all  they  teach  in  the  churches.  How 
can  I,  in  my  wo  rid,  or  any  real,  actual  world  for  that  mat- 
ter? Everything  would  always  have  to  be  a  com- 
promise! And  I  don't  see  any  one  else  doing  it,  except 
a  few  idiots  whom  everybody  does  up." 

Sylvia  is  one  of  those  who  sees  all  the  martyrs  in  the 
past  and  none  at  all  in  the  present. 

Sammy  takes  a  big  breath. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "I  only  know  that  I  have  one 
ability — I  can  write  plays;  and  unless  I  write  them  so 
they'll  sell,  I  will  starve !  I  can't  do  anything  else,  so  far 


176  THE  BALANCE 

as  I  can  see.  Particularly  when  I've  gotten  my  chance 
at  last." 

"Yes,"  says  Sylvia  lightly.  "If  you've  got  a  mes- 
sage, Tappy,  forget  it  before  you  ruin  your  reputation  for 
writing  saleable  stuff.  The  'Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin'  is 
saleable.  If  you  feel  you  can't  make  money  from  such 
stuff  you  better  go  fight  in  somebody's  foreign  legion,  or 
work  in  an  office  for  twenty-five  a  week.  But  don't 
write  plays!" 

"I  guess  I'm  not  quite  ready  for  the  foreign  legion 
yet,  thank  you,"  he  answers.  "I'll  write  for  a  while 
yet." 

"Perhaps  this  thing  won't  last  for  long,  Sydney,  any- 
way,", she  says,  at  the  door.  "Meanwhile,  come  and 
see  me,  and  I'll  cheer  you  up!" 

Sammy  is  quite  sure  it  will  last,  however,  as  he  takes 
his  departure  from  the  apartment,  and  strolls  down 
Fifth  Avenue.  As  he  walks  he  gazes  curiously  at  the 
names  upon  the  brass  plates  by  the  entrances,  the 
names  upon  the  windows,  and  over  the  doors,  A  beau- 
tiful marble  street,  this  lower  Fifth  Avenue,  beautiful 
buildings,  beautiful  offices.  How  attractive  our  mod- 
ern commercial  world  seems  in  the  romance  of  these 
triumphs  of  architecture! 

And  yet,  are  they,  too,  like  his  play?  Behind  their 
artistic  fronts  does  something  horrible  lurk?  Great 
smelters  in  far-off  Montana,  with  half-naked  workmen 
sweating  beneath  travelling  cranes,  in  their  ears  the 
crash  of  levers  and  machinery,  the  hiss  and  swirl  of 
molten  metal  punctuated  by  loud  detonations  as  the 
steam  bubbles  in  the  great  pouring  pots  explode 
with  frightful  showers  of  white,  burning,  blinding  metal 
sparks!  Outside,  the  blue  and  yellow  flats,  edged  by 
the  desolate  sage-brush  hills,  the  distance  blurring  the 
wretched  shacks  of  the  town,  rendering  indistinct  the 
foreign  names  upon  the  saloons  and  lunch-rooms,  leav- 
ing plain  and  distinct  in  all  the  squalor  only  the  huge 
company-owned  store,  and  the  company-owned  hotel, 
where  visitors  of  the  owners  may  be  entertained,  until 


THE  BALANCE  177 

they  start  their  journey  back  to  the  green,  cool  East! 
Factories  in  near  Massachusetts,  the  stark  mass  of 
wood  and  glass  that  make  up  the  buildings  rising  from 
the  barren  hillside  and  the  hovels  which  edge  up  to 
them  from  the  town.  Inside,  at  the  far  end,  a  thigh- 
deep  mass  of  stinking  skins  from  distant  Australia, 
surrounding  a  small  group  of  low-browed,  sweating 
humanity,  who  stretch,  and  sort,  and  throw  them  into 
the  humid  steam;  skins  from  which  the  fur  will  fly  off 
as  if  by  magic  beneath  the  ceaseless  scraping  of  machines 
in  another  part  of  the  building,  where  the  dust  of  filth 
rises  to  the  ceiling,  stifling  and  choking  more  half-clad 
workmen — men  here,  women  and  young  girls  there, 
and  once  in  a  while  a  child — shrinking,  shaping, 
blocking  endless  shapes  of  soggy  fur,  to  the  unceasing 
crash  of  metal,  the  interminable  buzz  of  belts,  the 
grinding  of  machinery,  the  heat  and  dust  and  hideous 
confusion  of  the  ordered  industry  of  felt  hat  making! 

Are  the  thousand  replicas  of  these,  spread  thousands 
of  miles  from  coast  to  coast,  the  sweating  parents  of 
these  calm  marble  buildings  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue, 
with,  inside,  the  fine  rugs  and  mahogany  furniture? 
Look  out,  Sammy,  as  you  think  or  you  may  stumble 
upon  your  message,  and  spoil  your  scarce-won  popu- 
larity. Your  public  likes  much  better  half-naked  ladies 
than  half-starved  workmen.  It  takes  character  to 
think  straight. 

We  know  that  he  has  not  lost  that  popularity  yet, 
however,  as  he  sits  in  the  box  with  Friedman,  at  the 
Players'  Theatre  the  next  night,  and  sees  the  duplicate 
of  Melchester's  ovation  which  New  York  and  Diamond 
Jim  Brady  call  first  night.  For  it  is  Melchester  over 
again,  only  this  time  on  a  grander  scale.  The  "Lady  in 
the  Lion  Skin"  has  caught  on  in  Gotham. 

"We  are  safe  for  all  the  winter,  Sydney,"  Sylvia 
says  radiantly,  as  they  sit  at  late  supper  in  Churchill's. 

All  about  them  men  are  staring  and  women  whisper- 
ing, '^That's  Sylvia  Tremaine!"  while  on  the  small 
stage  an  unhappy  young  lady  with  a  fine  voice  but  no 


178  THE  BALANCE 

stage  presence  is  lending  colour  to  the  advertisements 
for  the  cabaret. 

Hartmann  is  with  them,  a  trifle  amused  at  the  fancy 
Sylvia  seems  to  have  taken  for  this  Tappan.  But 
then,  she  usually  does  make  a  fuss  over  her  new  play- 
wright each  time.  She  cannot  resist  the  temptation 
to  make  a  conquest,  is  his  version  of  it.  For  once, 
however,  he  is  wrong.  Sylvia  is  not  thinking  of  making 
a  conquest  at  all.  She  is  almost  in  love  with  S.  Sydney 
Tappan,  and  she  feels  quite  sorry  for  him.  He  is 
honest  and  quite  unassuming  in  spite  of  his  success,  and 
she  feels  somehow  that  there  is  a  reality,  a  reserve 
force  somewhere  in  him,  that  these  men  she  has  known 
so  well  in  New  York  lack  conspicuously.  She  does 
not  know  it,  but  she  senses  the  genius  of  S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan,  buried  for  so  long,  but  coming  closer  to  the  surface 
now  and  destined  to  burst  forth  one  day  and  astound 
even  its  possessor  with  its  irresistible  demand  for 
recognition.  To  her  dying  day  Sylvia  swore  by  S. 
Sydney  Tappan,  though  she  never  acted  in  a  play  of 
his  again.  It  was  the  great  cross  of  her  existence  that 
she  could  not. 

It  is  as  Sammy  is  walking  home,  an  out-of-place 
figure  in  a  dress  suit  so  late  at  night  on  lower  Eighth 
Avenue,  that  he  realizes  his  loneliness;  that  loneliness 
which  seems  the  peculiar  property  of  New  York — the 
loneliness  of  great  cities.  It  is  different  than  the  lone- 
liness of  Melchester;  induced  somehow  by  the  floating 
river  of  humanity  which  makes  up  the  vast  town; 
added  to  by  the  myriads  of  streets  and  blocks  and 
buildings,  seemingly  without  end;  made  tragic  by  the 
callous  heart  of  its  inhabitants,  each  intent  upon  his 
special  aim,  and  with  no  time  even  to  bury  his  neigh- 
bour should  one  fall  dead. 

He  has  not  felt  it  so  overwhelmingly  until  now,  be- 
cause he  has  not  been  really  alone  before.  In  his  mind 
has  always  been  the  feeling  that  Carrie's  heart  is  with 
him,  her  letter  there  at  West  Twenty-ninth  Street, 
beneath  the  door,  awaiting  only  his  return  to  give  him 


THE  BALANCE  179 

her  renewed  message  of  encouragement.  It  is  because 
there  will  be  no  letter  there  to-night  that  he  feels  this 
loneliness  pressing  on  his  soul.  Will  there  ever  be  an- 
other letter  there  from  her,  he  wonders  ? 

He  is  glad  that  to-morrow  night  the  banquet  for  all 
the  cast  and  managers  will  be  held  at  Rector's.  Sylvia 
always  invites  her  former  playwrights,  too,  so  that  it  is 
very  much  her  family  affair.  Her  family,  indeed,  is 
what  she  always  calls  it.  It  will  serve  to  fill  the  time, 
at  least. 

It  was,  in  truth,  a  gay  party,  that  banquet  at  Rec- 
tor's. I  doubt,  too,  if  any  one  there  contributed  more 
to  the  gayety  than  S.  Sydney  Tappan.  Even  Hart- 
mann  was  quite  captured,  and  drank  a  final  cocktail 
with  him  out  in  the  bar  once  the  supper  was  over  and 
the  dancing  had  begun.  But  through  it  all  there  was  a 
little  strange  expression  in  Sylvia's  eyes.  Our  Sammy 
is  a  trifle  too  gay,  she  thinks,  as  she  watches  him  be- 
tween times.  He  quite  dislikes  petite,  flirtatious 
Marie  Marcel,  and  to-night  he  is  throwing  her  com- 
pliments across  the  table.  In  his  face  is  a  new  strained 
look  that  has  not  been  there  before.  S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan  is  not  happy.  He  has  taken  one  or  two  more 
cocktails  than  are  strictly  necessary  for  good  form. 
Society  always  acted  like  wine  upon  him,  but  to-night 
he  has  felt  the  need  of  a  trifle  extra  stimulant,  in  order 
to  be  gay.  He  does  not  wish  to  be  idle  for  a  moment, 
lest  his  mind  have  time  for  thought.  There  is  no  one 
here  to  whom  he  wishes  to  say  anything  except  in 
lightest  badinage — no  one,  that  is,  except  Sylvia.  And 
he  will  not  spoil  her  party. 

She  slips  her  arm  through  his  in  the  taxicab,  on  the 
way  to  her  apartment. 

"Poor  Tappy,"  she  says  feelingly.  "You're  really 
solemn  as  an  owl,  aren't  you?" 

"The  owl,"  he  says  quite  bitterly,"  is  a  gay  and  in- 
consequential bird  compared  to  me  to-night.  I  hope  I 
haven't  spoiled  your  party." 

She  shrugs  her  shoulders  a  little. 


180  THE  BALANCE 

"Let  them  worry,  Tappy.  They  only  come  because 
I  am  successful,  I  know  that.  Those  in  the  business, 
because  it's  policy — and  free.  The  outsiders,  because 
— well,  it's  quite  au  fait  !  I  am  a  public  character,  an 
institution,  an  advertisement,  and  they  are  quite 
devilish,  quite  devil  may  care,  to  know  me.  They 
would  like  to  give  the  impression,  if  they  could,  without 
saying  so,  that  I  usually  dine  in  tights,  and  receive 
them  in  a  nightie.  It  is  all  quite  silly.  I  am  not  so 
very  different  from  any  other  woman,  am  I,  Tappy? 
Except,  perhaps,  I  am  hard.  You  didn't  spoil  the 
party  anyway.  No  one  noticed  it  but  me." 

He  has  not  taken  the  trouble  to  deny  that  he  is  un- 
happy. 

At  the  door  he  refuses  to  come  in. 

"I  am  very  dull,"  he  says  apologetically. 

He  is  thinking  that  perhaps  there  is  a  letter  under- 
neath his  door  by  now — a  late  mail.  He  has  not  been 
home  since  afternoon.  In  his  mind  is  still  that  strange, 
unsettled,  nervous  feeling  which  he  cannot  seem  to 
shake  off.  Dimly  he  realizes  that  he  would  rather  go 
and  see  whether  there  is  not  a  letter  there  for  him,  than 
listen  to  any  amount  of  condolences  from  Sylvia.  There 
is  something  imperative  about  an  expected  letter. 
And  sooner  or  later,  he  thinks,  Carrie  will  be  obliged 
to  write.  This  is  not  a  tiff  that  they  are  having.  They 
simply  have  agreed  to  differ.  Well,  if  she  does  not 
write  to  him,  he  will  write  to  her.  He  must  tell  her 
about  the  play's  success,  at  any  rate.  He  is  made  in 
New  York  financially.  Marriage  is  not  a  question 
of  expense  any  longer.  Does  she  also  feel  as  queerly  as 
he  does,  to-night  ? 

If  only  Ric  were  in  town,  at  least,  he  thinks,  as  he 
pays  off  the  taxicab  and  mounts  the  stairs. 

As  he  ascends  the  winding  carpeted  stairs,  and 
lights  a  match,  there  is  a  little  gleam  of  white  under- 
neath the  door.  A  letter  from  Carrie  at  last,  he  sees, 
with  a  strange,  little,  trembling  eagerness;  and  he  lights 
the  gas  and  breaks  the  seal.  She  has  written: 


THE  BALANCE  181 

"Dear  Sammy,  I  am  very  unhappy,  and  wish  that  you  would 
write  to  me. 

(Ah,    Carrie,    you    always    said    exactly   what    you 
thought !) 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  alone  in  New  York  without 
even  Ric,  and  with  just  the  memory  of  our  talk.  Please,  won't 
you  write  to  me,  just  as  before?  I  need  our  friendship,  don't 
you,  too?  I  can't  seem,  somehow,  to  realize  that  things  are 
different  between  us,  and  find  myself  falling  back  into  the  old 
ways  all  the  time.  I  know,  too,  of  course,  that  we  could  never  be 
happy  together.  We  are  just  starting  on  our  paths  in  life  and  they 
diverge  too  widely.  Some  married  people  don't  go  on,  or  only  one 
does,  but  with  us  the  unhappiness  would  come  almost  at  once. 
We  neither  of  us  would  wish  to  stand  still.  And  yet,  I  think  I 
love  you,  Sammy,  almost  the  same.  Isn't  it  quite  strange?  Per- 
haps I  should  have  pride  and  mail  you  back  an  engagement  ring 
and  say  all  is  over  between  us;  but  someway  I  can't.  I  don't  think 
it  is  all  over,  or  ever  can  be.  I  know  I  never  can  forget  you,  Sammy. 
How  could  I?  It  would  be  silly  to  pretend.  They  say  that  years 
make  everything  different,  but  I  don't  see  just  now  how  my  life 
can  ever  be  a  married  one.  I  should  still  be  married  just  the  same 
to  you.  You  have  given  me  enough  happiness  to  last. 

"I  have  been  thinking  it  all  out  these  last  few  days,  hoping,  too, 
for  a  little  note  from  you,  trying  to  see  honestly  for  both  of  us 
just  whatjis  best.  So  I  have  left  1200  Washington  Avenue,  as 

S)u  can  see  by  the  paper,  and  am  the  assistant  resident  worker  on 
ague  St.  I  have  been  unhappy  all  my  life  because  I  was  not 
living  a  life  that  was  real  at  all,  or  useful  either,  and  I  have  found, 
like  Stevenson,  that  the  things  and  amusements  of  my  own  class 
do  not  amuse  me  or  make  me  happy.  I  am  out  of  place.  But  I 
am  not  a  genius  like  R.  L.  S.,  and  so  there  is  nothing  much  for  me 
except  to  do  the  best  I  can.  Needless  much  to  mention,  the  family 
is  outraged.  You  know  them  well  enough  to  imagine  all  the  de- 
tails. Just  at  present  there  is  trouble  in  the  store,  too,  and  many 
of  the  disaffected — as  father  calls  them  grandly — live  in  this  sec- 
tion. So  that  he  thinks  I  am  giving  aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemy 
by  coming  down  here  just  now.  But  I  cannot  stand  it  at  home 
any  longer.  I  only  ever  could  because  I  was  waiting  just  for  you, 
and  felt  my  life  there  was  temporary.  And  if  I  am  to  help  I  cannot 
wait  while  father  straightens  out  his  labour  trouble.  His  whole 
policy  is  delay,  and  I  must  do  what  I  believe.  I  won't  overturn 
the  world,  Sammy,  but  at  least  I  can  be  true  to  my  own  beliefs. 

"I  wasn't  going  to  say  anything  about  the  play  but  I  find  I  have 
to,  now  that  I  am  writing  to  you.  It  would  be  affectation  to  ignore 
it,  wouldn't  it?  I  am  so  sorry  that  I  can't  wish  it  success.  I  can 


182  THE  BALANCE 

make  up  for  it,  though,  Sammy,  by  wishing  you  all  the  success  in 
the  world.  I  hope  you  will  really  find  yourself  some  day.  I  sound 
so  sure,  don't  I?  Am  I  quite  unbearable?  Don't  quake,  Sammy. 
I  shall  never  try  to  convert  you.  You  are  so  much  smarter  than 
I,  that  you  would  always  win  the  argument  anyway.  So  I  won't 
enter  in  the  lists. 

"  But  I  have  a  little,  well — a  kind  of  vision,  I  think,  that  buoys 
me  in  my  work — I  hope  you  have  one,  too.  Write  a  kindly  play, 
Sammy,  next  time,  will  you?  If  you  can't  please  me,  write  one 
that  will  make  the  world's  heart  beat  a  little  faster.  You  could  do 
that,  I  know — I  shall  never  forget  those  tickets  to  poor  Annie! 
Good-bye,  Sammy — am  I  just — sincerely  yours,  now?  I  wonder. 

"CARRIE." 

A  long  time  our  Sammy  sits  in  the  room  on  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street,  staring  at  her  letter.  He  has 
lost  her,  for  good,  he  knows  now.  And  he  has  no  anch- 
orage in  the  world.  There  has  been  practically  no 
religion  in  his  life  save  when  he  has  been  too  young  to 
understand.  Now,  into  his  mind,  as  he  sits  in  the 
lighted  room  that  gives  upon  the  darkened  tenements, 
and  listens  to  the  occasional  trains  upon  the  elevated 
road  a  block  away,  there  comes  a  tremendous  sense  of 
emptiness,  of  loss.  Is  this  why  men  say  that  God  is 
love?  Still,  Carrie  has  lost  love,  and  seems  to  have  a 
vision.  What  is  it  then?  Has  he  lost  God?  Or  has 
he  sold  Him,  too,  for  success  ? 

Success!  Into  his  mind  comes  dimly,  again,  a  beau- 
tiful marble  street. 

Well,  Sammy,  you  are  not  quite  ready  yet  for  your 
task  in  the  world.  So  I  cannot  blame  you  for  your 
obtuseness.  You  are  not  shrinking  from  the  ordeal. 
You  simply  do  not  see  it.  Saul  still  rules  in  Antioch. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN   WHICH   CARRIE   URGES   SAMMY  TO  THINK,   AND 
RUBY  COMES  BACK  WITH  BANTRY  TO  THE  HALFWAY 

HOUSE 

IT  is  a  curious  thing  to  reflect  upon  the  odd  frag- 
ments of  the  past  which  our  memories  choose  to  treasure 
up.  We  are  seldom  conscious  of  any  measured  se- 
quence of  events,  except  we  have  lived  intensely  and 
view  them  from  a  far-removed  point  of  vantage  some 
time  later. 

Many  years  afterward  S.  Sydney  Tappan  became 
aware  of  the  gradual  trend  of  events  which  led  to  his 
great  inspiration;  but  it  was  not  until  all  real  con- 
nection with  them  had  been  removed  that  he  was 
able  to  identify  each  separate  happening  for  what  it 
was  worth.  And  when  that  day  came,  Time  had  al- 
ready begun  its  task  of  dulling  all  the  edges,  until 
the  picture  no  longer  stood  out  clear  and  distinct  to 
him,  and  he  only  realized  that  he  had  once  been  dif- 
ferent, and  had  changed. 

*  So  it  was  in  regard  to  Carrie's  letters.  He  never 
could  remember  how  they  changed  and  altered,  or 
how  his  replies — strange,  halting  replies  they  were — 
met  the  changing  argument,  until  all  correspondence 
had  ceased,  and  they  no  longer  heard  from  each  other. 
It  was  partly  pride  upon  our  Sammy's  part,  I  think, 
that  final  failure  of  his  to  answer  her  last  letter.  On 
Carrie's  side,  I  am  almost  afraid  it  was  a  broken  heart. 

As  she  went  deeper  into  her  work,  the  very  hope- 
lessness of  her  task  only  served  to  intensify  in  her  the 
conviction  that  she  must  never  falter.  I  think  she 
realized,  too,  the  tinsel  world  in  which  her  Sammy 

183 


184  THE  BALANCE 

gilded  imitations  with  the  splendour  of  his  gift,  while 
the  real  world  of  suffering  cried  out  at  his  door.  That 
divine  sympathy  of  hers,  which  finally  made  Hague 
Street  take  her  to  its  heart,  seemed  to  stop  short, 
someway,  before  it  reached  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  door. 
She  had  less  and  less  patience  with  him  as  her  knowledge 
of  the  world  increased,  and  that  first  naive  conviction 
of  hers,  that  the  world  but  needed  to  be  informed  to 
tear  the  canker  of  poverty  from  its  soul,  gave  way  to 
the  realization  that  this  knowledge  was  but  the  begin- 
ning of  the  bitter  fight;  a  fight  made  more  poignant 
by  the  picture  of  the  world  of  man  growing  older 
with  each  day,  a  new  generation  of  sorrow  and  of  ignor- 
ance coming  to  manhood  and  womanhood  with  each 
year — a  generation  to  be  struggled  with  anew,  helped, 
guided,  combatted,  and  everlastingly  pushed  on.  Her 
ounce  of  inspiration  fought  ceaselessly  with  the  inert 
tons  of  humanity,  while  only  here  and  there  was  there 
an  answering  flash  of  light  which  showed  the  spirit 
still  was  in  the  mass,  and  would  some  day  move  the 
whole. 

It  was  the  picture  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  blowing 
pretty  bubbles,  with  inimitable  genius,  for  the  favoured 
ifew  to  praise,  while  around  him  a  nation  struggled  for 
existence  against  a  monster — it  was  this  picture  which 
destroyed  a  great  part  of  her  old  sympathy  for  him. 
Through  it  all,  too,  there  was  the  bitter  feeling  of  dis- 
appointment that  the  bulk  of  him  was  weighing  down 
so  lightly  on  the  scales. 

It  was  only  when  she  sat  alone,  in  her  tiny  bedroom 
off  the  plainly  furnished  sitting-room  of  the  Settle- 
ment house,  that  the  spirit  sometimes  flickered  low 
within  her,  and  she  felt  sorry,  oh,  so  sorry  for  her 
Sammy — yes,  and  a  little  sorry  for  herself.  Her  Settle- 
ment was  in  a  district  overwhelmed  with  little  children 
— what  Settlement  is  not? — and  it  was  always  when 
she  had  seen  a  boy  with  dark  hair  and  brown  face,  and 
his  legs  a  trifle  thin,  that  her  heart  came  in  her  throat, 
and  bedtime  could  not  come  too  early  for  her.  She 


THE  BALANCE  185 

did  not  blush  a  little  nights,  or  her  heart  beat  quickly, 
as  once  it  had  in  that  room  of  hers  on  Washington 
Avenue  when  she  thought  of  Sammy  and  the  little 
child  their  marriage  would  mean.  There  was  a  tight- 
ness in  her  throat,  now,  and  a  curious  dryness  in  her 
eyes,  that  sometimes  lasted  until  morning  had  come, 
and  the  peddlers  were  astir. 

I  think,  perhaps,  that  was  why  she  won  all  their 
childish  hearts;  each  one  some  day  might  be  a  Sammy, 
and  she  did  not  want  to  miss  a  single  chance.  Ah, 
Carrie,  what  would  some  of  the  rest  of  us  not  give  to 
have  had  the  children  of  Hague  Street  kiss  the  ground 
where  we  had  passed!  It  is  a  pathetic  fact  that  a 
small  group  of  little  Jewish  children  from  Roumania 
asked,  when  they  first  heard  of  her  in  the  Settlement, 
if  she  were  perhaps  some  relative  of  God's.  Well,  I 
for  one  think  they  were  not  so  far  from  right.  We 
all  are  in  greater  or  less  degree.  Carrie  only  looked  up 
her  Great  Relative,  and  never  forgot  their  relationship. 

It  is  curious,  too,  to  reflect  that  though  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  might  have  lived  and  died  content  to  blow  his 
bubbles  had  not  Carrie  been  in  his  life,  it  was  his  own 
personality  which  finally  prodded  him  into  action. 

Well,  we  are  not  interested,  most  of  us,  in  things 
which  lie  outside  our  own  personal  circle  of  experience. 
A  thousand  deaths  in  China  do  not  stir  some  of  us  in 
any  degree  approaching  the  death  of  a  pet  dog.  It  is 
not  because  we  are  flinty  hearted  and  monsters  of 
iniquity,  each  with  a  personal  devil  to  be  exorcised 
until  we  take  deaths  in  China  to  heart.  It  is  because 
we  have  no  imaginations.  Thus  it  was  that  Sammy, 
in  spite  of  his  dramatic  soul,  was  not  stirred  to  action 
until  his  personal  experiences  had  egged  him  on. 

It  has  been  said,  by  supposedly  impartial  commen- 
tators upon  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  life,  that  he  had  in 
him  the  making  of  a  martyr,  and  that  success  deprived 
him  of  a  halo  They  are  referring,  of  course,  to  his 
later  life.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  it  was 
but  the  dramatic  instant  each  time  that  fired  him,  and 


186  THE  BALANCE 

his  gift  did  the  rest.  He  fell  in  love  with  the  idea, 
just  as  he  had  with  the  idea  of  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin."  There  is  not  one  iota  of  difference.  As  for  the 
one  great  sacrifice  of  his  life,  I  am  loathe  to  tear  away 
his  crown,  and  yet  that  was  the  same.  If  you  find 
me  tearing  off  his  wreath,  remember  it  is  because  I 
wish  to  show  you  the  real  thing  that  lay  beneath. 
There  was  something  fine  beneath  in  the  end,  Sammy, 
I  give  you  credit  for  that,  at  least!  It  is  only  that 
there  is  always  left  with  me  the  sneaking  feeling  that 
perhaps  after  all  you  simply  stayed  in  love  with  the 
idea  all  the  time  and  so  it  was  not  hard  for  you.  .  .  . 

Most  of  Carrie's  letters  about  this  time  he  destroyed 
in  periodic  rages.  She  was  too  sure  to  please  him  who 
was  never  sure  of  anything  except  the  motives  of  his 
characters.  There  were  only  one  or  two  that  he  found 
afterward  which  brought  back  vividly  to  him  that  time 
in  his  life.  Why  he  had  not  destroyed  them,  he  never 
knew. 

He  had  moved  to  the  Lambs'  Club  for  the  time 
being,  though  still  keeping  that  old  room  on  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street,  until  Ricorton  should  return, 
when  one  of  them  was  brought  up  to  him  as  he  dressed 
for  a  late  breakfast. 

Our  Sammy  has  been  tasting  New  York  life  a  little 
these  last  few  months,  as  the  little  puffs  beneath  his 
eyes  show  quite  unmistakably.  Let  us  not  be  shocked, 
however.  There  are  worse  things  to  fall  back  on  for 
diversion  than  an  extra  cocktail  at  Churchill's  or 
Rector's.  Sylvia  is  compelled  to  lead  a  fairly  regular 
and  blameless  life,  too,  if  she  is  to  preserve  unimpaired 
that  beauty  she  sells  nightly,  and  our  Sammy  has 
not  been  leading,  in  consequence,  the  wild,  abandoned 
existence  which  seems  so  necessary  for  the  popular 
estimate  of  the  stage. 

As  he  takes  the  letter  from  its  tray,  there  is  a  curious 
look  in  his  eye.  This  correspondence  has  assumed  a 
startling  likeness  to  an  argument  now,  so  far  as  he  can 
see.  Is  it  because  neither  of  them  feels  that  personal 


THE  BALANCE  187 

feelings  are  of  much  importance  when  their  points 
of  view  are  so  far  apart?  He  is  obliged  to  confess, 
however,  that  he  has  taken  to  dropping  in  at  the 
public  library  for  information  just  previous  to  writing 
her  each  time.  She  writes: 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  be  so  blind,  Sammy,  when  you 
are  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  of  the  most  terrible  results  of 
it,  with  the  East  Side  and  its  poverty  so  close  to  you.  Don't  you 
ever  go  south  of  Forty-second  Street?  It  doesn't  sound  so  to  me. 
I  don't  believe  you  could  see  these  children,  children,  children, 
here  where  I  am,  and  know  what  they  must  grow  up  to-^-and  still 
never  lift  a  hand.  If  only  people  knew!  I  am  beginning  to  see 
now,  however,  that  it  isn't  enough  just  to  know.  But  it  is  enough 
for  so  many  of  us  to  work  at,  just  this  mere  knowing,  this  new 
knowledge  of  what  the  poverty-stricken  soul  of  a  nation  thinks. 

"It  isn't  just  teaching  children  to  play,  Sammy,  or  showing  girls 
how  to  sew  and  economize  just  for  the  thing  alone.  It  is  so  they 
can  face  the  world,  self-reliantly,  and  not  sink  lower  in  degradation 
simply  because  they  are  poor  and  have  no  chance. 

"I  have  tried  arguing  with  father,  as  you  say  you  think  should 
be  my  chance — tried  and  failed.  He  either  can't  or  won't  see.  He 
is  the  head  of  his  companies,  and  they  must  produce  a  good  profit 
to  be  successful — and  that  is  everything  to  him.  He  cannot  pay 
any  one  a  minimum  wage  unless  other  industries  do,  too,  because 
he  won't  be  able  to  compete  if  he  does.  That  is  why  he  is  fighting 
the  new  trade  union  of  the  clerks,  though  I  notice  the  papers  quote 
him  as  saying  that  each  person  ought  to  be  able  to  work  as  he 
pleases,  and  he  himself  is  capable  of  running  his  own  business 
without  outside  interference.  He  is  very  angry  at  me  because  I 
have  been  helping  the  girls  to  organize,  also.  He  doesn't  see  that 
they  must.  They  can  hardly  live  on  what  they  get  now,  and  when 
hard  times  come  I  cannot  see  what  they  will  do.  They  had  no 
place  to  meet  even,  except  old  Germania  Hall  with  the  bar  down- 
stairs, until  I  got  a  brick  block  for  them  across  from  Hague  Street. 

"Father  declared  yesterday  he  would  stop  his  contributions  to 
the  Settlements  from  now  on  unless  they  ceased  stirring  up  trouble. 
He  says  I  do  not  realize  the  harm  I  have  been  doing,  and  have  no 
business  working  in  Settlements  at  all.  I  am  not  so  sure  but  what 
he  will  try  to  have  me  put  out  if  things  go  on  as  they  have  been. 
I  simply  cannot  make  him  out  at  all.  He  thinks  charity  is  fine, 
and  yet  when  I  do  something  real,  so  that  the  poor  may  help  them- 
selves until  conditions  can  be  bettered,  he  is  furious,  and  says  that 
I  have  become  a  Socialist  and  Anarchist  and  I.  W.  W. — I  wonder 
if  he  thinks  they  are  all  the  same?  Perhaps  I  should  have  helped 
some  one  he  didn't  know,  and  then  he  would  not  have  classed  me 
in  with  the  people  he  thinks  throw  dynamite. 


188  THE  BALANCE 

"I  have  learned,  however,  that  people  do  not  throw  bombs  for 
amusement,  Sammy.  I  know  that  now.  Please  don't  laugh  at 
these  I.  W.  W.'s.  To  think  that  America  should  sneer  at  people 
who  give  up  everything  for  their  ideas  no  matter  what  the  ideas 
may  be — sneer,  too,  without  listening,  so  that  they  do  not  know 
what  they  are  saying.  You  don't  know  how  I  tremble  for  the  bal- 
ance, sometimes,  down  here  on  Hague  Street.  If  only  people  would 
read  their  Bible  in  the  present  tense,  and  not  way  back  in  Galilee 
so  many  centuries  ago;  read  it  as  they  walk  through  the  slums, 
through  the  factories,  the  mines,  the  cities,  read  it,  and  have  their 
Bible  classes  in  the  light  of  this  Twentieth  Century.  I  don't  see 
how  you  can  sit  down  in  New  York,  Sammy,  and  not  feel  the  desire 
to  help.  You  have  never  had  any  religion,  I  know,  because  of 
your  life,  and  because  religion  has  never  had  any  thrills  for  you. 
It  is  because  the  thrill  isn't  in  the  churches  any  more,  in  most  of 
them  anyway — it  is  outside,  in  the  people  who  are  giving  up  their 
lives  for  their  fellows,  and  calling  it  by  all  these  names — some  of 
them  wrong,  some  of  them  dimly  right,  their  real  standard  the  name 
of  Christ  and  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  only  all  overshadowed, 
mangled,  and  embittered  by  their  human  failings  and  the  misery 
of  their  lives.  How  will  it  all  turn  out  ? 

"The  thing  to  me  is  that  they  are  trying,  Sammy — they  are 
trying  to  do  something  about  it  all.  While  so  many  of  the  rest  of 
us  sit  quietly  at  home,  or  do  little  things  which  won't  inconvenience 
us  at  all.  Sitting  as  you  are  sitting,  Sammy,  just  putting  wrong 
and  foolish  ideas  into  people's  heads " 

It  was  at  points  like  this,  usually,  that  our  Sammy 
tore  up  the  letters,  to  fish  the  pieces  out  of  the  waste 
basket  a  moment  later  and  read  on  to  the  end.  Carrie, 
like  all  enthusiasts,  was  riding  her  new  mission  at  a 
gallop  in  those  days.  Sammy  told  her  many  years 
afterward  that  he  was  nearly  ready  then  to  go  upon  his 
future  way,  but  that  he  did  not  care  to  be  pushed  down 
it.  I  think  he  added,  too,  that  he  was  not  sitting, 
either.  He  was  evolving — as  well  as  the  rush  of  life 
in  New  York  would  allow  him — a  new  play  for  Sylvia, 
one  which  should  be  a  fitting  successor  to  the  "Lady  in 
the  Lion  Skin."  How  far  he  really  was  from  seeing! 

No,  Sammy,  you  are  to  have  a  few  more  experiences 
yet  before  you  qualify  with  Carrie.  I  do  not  think, 
either,  that  you  would  have  ever  started  upon  your 
path  from  the  Lambs'  Club.  Perhaps  that  is  why  it 
was  taken  away  from  you. 


THE  BALANCE  189 

To-day,  however,  is  not  a  day  for  him  to  bother 
himself  about  such  matters.  Ricorton  and  Ruby 
and  the  Honeymooners  are  coming  home  to-day, 
and  Sylvia  has  insisted  upon  entertaining  them  at  a 
little  party  in  her  apartment  after  the  play.  Ric  has 
never  even  seen  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin!"  All  the 
Honeymooners  are  to  see  the  performance,  too.  There 
is  no  one  quite  so  spendthrift  as  the  actor  when  in 
luck.  So  a  dinner  will  be  given  the  rest  of  the  Com- 
pany, after  which  Sylvia  has  donated  the  tickets  to 
the  play,  and  a  midnight  supper  afterward.  A  lot 
of  children  together,  these  jolly  Thespians,  striving  to 
outdo  each  other  in  gayety,  because  all  are  now  suc- 
cessful! Conceit  aside,  there  is  something  lovable 
about  the  people  of  the  stage. 

So  our  Sammy  has  no  time  for  answering  letters  this 
morning,  but  must  finish  dressing  and  hurry  down  to 
breakfast.  In  his  heart,  though,  is  a  little  feeling  that 
might  almost  be  jealousy,  when  he  thinks  of  Carrie 
and  the  young  doctors  whom  she  sometimes  mentions 
in  her  letters.  He  would  be  willing  to  wager  a  great 
deal  that  some  of  them  come  to  the  tenements  at  her 
call  because  she  is  pretty  in  her  cotton  dress!  Well, 
little  good  it  will  do  them,  he  thinks  cynically,  if  they 
are  not  sincere.  She  will  see  through  them  at  the 
start.  Still,  there  might  be  one  who  is  in  earnest! 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  puts  the  thought  from  him  as  if 
it  burnt.  On  his  mind,  though,  it  has  left  a  little 
mark.  He  may  not  always  be  able  to  have  Carrie 
for  a  mere  change  in  his  ideas.  In  his  soul,  I  some- 
times wonder,  did  he  ever  give  her  up?  Or  was  he 
always  conscious  that  she  could  never  love  any  one 
but  him?  It  was  always  exquisite  torture  to  him 
to  even  think  of  her  with  any  one  else.  If  only 
she  had  been  born  without  a  brain,  and  so  could  never 
have  had  any  of  these  ideas  at  all!  It  was  the  only 
point  on  which  Mr.  Schroeder  and  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
might  ever  have  agreed. 

The  quaint  Halfway  House,  with  its  narrow  passage 


190  THE  BALANCE 

past  the  saloon,  and  the  pathetic  imitation  of  a  garden 
which  surrounds  the  green  tables  in  the  rear,  has  sel- 
dom housed  a  more  uproarious  party,  I  will  wager,  than 
the  one  that  trailed  after  our  Sammy  upon  the  bright 
afternoon  of  Ric's  arrival.  What  a  commentary  upon 
wealth  and  its  advantages,  that  Ricorton  and  our 
Sammy,  with  Ruby  and  Jack  Bantry  tight  between 
them,  spent  money  gayly  for  a  taxicab  to  draw  them 
only  a  few  short  blocks  to  the  German  saloon  garden, 
with  its  rough  surroundings  and  its  five-cent  beer  drawn 
from  the  wood ! 

It  represents  pleasure  to  them  and  hospitality  now, 
as  in  the  days  when  they  had  but  the  five  cents  to  spend 
for  beer.  Ric  has  longed  for  this  place  ever  since  the 
act  left  New  York,  nearly  a  year  ago.  He  likes  the 
shouting  down  the  dumb  waiter  for  "zwei  bier  und 
kartofFeln ! "  for  "drei  bier  und  pot  r-r-roast ! " — likes,  too, 
the  sweet,  fresh-drawn  beer  and  all  the  free  and  easy 
familiarity  of  the  place.  A  strange  mixed  crowd  in 
here  usually  in  those  days  when  Ric  came  before,  but 
none  of  them  here  just  now,  this  late  June  afternoon. 
But  it  is  New  York  once  more  and  Tappy,  and  Ric  is 
content. 

Let  us  go  up  with  the  little  round  German  waiter 
and  hear  what  these  four  are  saying,  particularly  that 
stylish-looking  girl  in  gray  with  the  free  and  easy 
carriage  and  aplomb  of  the  stage.  It  is  Ruby,  quite 
fashionable  in  her  tailored  suit  from  Pittsburgh — 
bought  at  a  sale — and  overflowing  with  gay  spirits 
and  good  health.  Ric,  too,  is  almost  impressive  in  his 
new  dark  gray  curaway  and  cane.  The  contrast 
between  his  appearance  and  this  place  he  has  chosen 
almost  before  they  have  alighted  from  the  train,  is 
ludicrous.  There  is  nothing  of  the  aristocrat  in  Ric, 
except  his  taste  in  music.  Only  when  they  speak  would 
we  recognize  them  all  as  our  old  friends  of  Lyric  Hall. 
They  have  not  altered  in  the  slightest  degree.  Even 
Ruby's  ankles  are  as  plainly  visible  as  ever,  with 
perhaps  even  a  shade  more  prettily  shaped  silk  stocking 


THE  BALANCE  191 

exposed  to  view.  Were  there  any  doubt  of  the  profes- 
sion of  these  people,  too,  the  vision  of  Bantry's  checked 
suit,  gray  spats,  bright  shirt,  panama  hat,  and  natty 
cane  would  dissipate  it  at  once.  Thespians  in  luck! 

"We  can't  get  much  more  than  a  month  out  of  New 
York,  now,"  Ricorton  is  saying.  They  have  pounded 
each  other  upon  the  back  and  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has 
even  kissed  Ruby,  in  the  excitement,  and  they  are  only 
able  now  to  settle  down  to  talk.  "There's  only  the 
Fifth  Avenue  and  the  Alhambra  and  the  rest  of  the  city 
circuit  for  us,  with  perhaps  a  week  at  Hammerstein's. 
We  ought  to  get  busy  right  away  on  the  thing!" 

He  is  referring  to  the  musical  act  which  he  has  pro- 
posed to  S.  Sydney  Tappan  in  his  letters.  Short,  good 
acts  for  vaudeville  are  not  easily  procured,  especially 
when  the  time  is  short. 

"You  bet!"  cries  Ruby.  "And  it's  got  to  be  good. 
We  have  got  to  depend  on  the  act  itself  getting  over. 
They  won't  pay  seven  hundred  and  fifty  just  to  see  me, 
and  hear  the  Gloom  here  exercise  his  lungs!"  She 
means  Bantry. 

"Well,  I'm  not  a  specialty  artist,"  the  Irishman 
retorts.  "Or  I  wouldn't  be  singin'  in  *  The  Honeymoon- 
ers,'  would  I  ?  I'd  be  a  single  and  book  myself." 

"You'd  pay  yourself  a  million  dollars  a  night,  too, 
wouldn't  you,  Jack?'11  asks  Ruby  maliciously.  This 
masterful  Irishman  attracts  her,  even  though  she  sees 
through  him.  There  is  something  about  his  person- 
ality that  magnetizes  her.  Is  it  his  ^never-ending 
pursuit  of  her  that  hypnotizes  her  at  times?  She  is 
clever  enough,  too,  to  realize  that  it  is  but  the  nature 
of  the  man;  that  were  she  any  attractive  woman  it 
would  be  the  same.  A  man  of  his  passions,  this  Jack 
Bantry,  whom  Ruby  would  do  well  to  leave  alone. 
There  is  something  irresistible  to  her,  however,  about 
the  idea  of  tantalizing  him.  His  conceit  is  seemingly 
so  bullet  proof. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  never  looked  very  closely 
at  this  Irishman  before  this  afternoon,  either,  but  he 


192  THE  BALANCE 

realizes  also,  as  he  sits  opposite  him  now,  that  there  is  a 
sort  of  moodiness  in  his  manner.  Is  it  jealousy,  he 
wonders?  That  inevitable  accompaniment  of  all  suc- 
cess in  the  artistic  world!  Well,  it  may  well  be.  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  has  been  in  this  business  hardly  more 
than  a  year  and  has  climbed  well  to  the  top  already, 
without  those  seasons  of  discouragement  that  dog  the 
actor's  career;  without  running  the  gauntlet  of  cheap 
theatres,  without  the  one-night  stands  in  second-hand 
plays,  the  hand-me-down  comedies  with  songs,  the 
months  of  unemployment,  the  under  parts  in  musical 
productions,  the  fill-in  weeks  at  starvation  wages  in  the 
three-a-day,  the  days  of  waiting  in  agents'  booking 
offices,  the  summer  stock  in  Maine  or  the  Middle  West 
at  half  salary — these  unpleasant,  unavoidable  acces- 
sories of  the  actor's  life  have  not  fallen  to  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  at  all — and  yet  he  has  won  success.  What 
can  it  be  but  luck  to  this  Jack  Bantry,  with  his  Irish 
temper?  Jack  Bantry 's  God  is  luck.  Whoever  suc- 
ceeds or  fails  does  so  by  luck.  This  is  why  he  feels 
to-day  the  envious  disdain  of  the  half-educated  profes- 
sional conscious  of  his  practical  experience  and  over- 
rating it,  for  the  knowledge  of  the  mere  amateur  who 
has  scored  by  a  fluke. 

To  Ruby,  however,  this  manliness  adds  a  touch  of 
masculine  aggressiveness  which  attracts  her.  There 
are  times  when  the  tall  musician  with  the  thatch-like 
hair  does  not  seem  quite  masterful  enough. 

Ricorton's  eyes  blaze  a  little,  nevertheless,  as  Ruby 
gives  Bantry  a  provocative  glance  from  beneath  her 
half-closed  lids.  He  is  never  quite  sure  of  her  when  the 
Irishman  is  around. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan,  however,  is  quite  unconscious 
as  he  outlines  his  idea  to  Ric.  He  is  speaking  of  their 
old  opera. 

"There  are  at  least  six  good  numbers  in  the  thing," 
he  says  enthusiastically.  "We'll  take  them,  build  a 
short  romantic  Oriental  story  around  them,  put  in 
about  six  lines  of  recitative  dialogue  and  action  for  the 


THE  BALANCE  193 

principals  between,  pantomime  for  the  chorus,  get  up  a 
bang-up  Asiatic  setting,  with  a  rose-trellised  window  for 
the  serenade  and  duet,  add  a  minute  overture,  figure 
out  a  climax,  and  put  on  the  'Rose  of  Asia,'  a  light  opera 
in  thirty  minutes.  How  does  it  sound  ? " 

"Immense!"  cries  Ric  warmly. 

"Too  high  brow,"  says  Bantry.  "They  want  com- 
edy stuff  in  vaudeville." 

"You'll  furnish  that,  Jack,"  says  Ruby  with  a  grin. 
"It  will  be  all  right,  Tappy,  if  you  dress  the  thing  up  for 
the  women — gorgeous  costumes,  settings;  and  chiffon 
and  bare  legs  for  the  chorus.  That  gets  the  men." 

"Our  chorus  wouldn't  get  a  college  kid,"  says  Bantry 
cynically.  "The  voices  never  seem  to  have  the  legs." 

"Oh,  forget  it,  Jack,  will  you?"  cries  Ruby  impa- 
tiently. "You  ought  to  live  in  a  cemetery."  He  is 
extraordinarily  gloomy  to-day. 

They  can  get  the  score  of  the  opera  from  Kane's 
office  that  afternoon,  they  decide,  and  start  work  upon 
the  act  right  away.  It  will  take  about  three  thousand 
dollars  to  do  it  rightly,  but  should  be  a  good  investment. 

As  they  go  to  the  great  Kane's  offices  for  the  score, 
however,  and  find  it  on  the  second  floor  behind  a  piano, 
let  us  stay  behind  and  listen  to  this  girl  in  gray  and  her 
Irishman.  It  is  some  two  hours  before  the  dinner  for 
the  company,  and  Bantry  does  not  seem  to  be  enjoy- 
ing the  prospect.  He  is  staring  moodily  at  the  green 
table  in  front  of  him,  as  Ricorton  and  Tappy  go  up 
Seventh  Avenue. 

"I  think  I'll  not  go  to-night,"  he  says.  I  wonder 
does  he  say  this  because  he  cannot  bear  the  thought  of 
celebrating  some  one  else's  triumph  ? 

"Please  yourself,  Jack,"  Ruby  answers  lightly.  She 
knows  his  moods  by  this  time.  "You  always  do  any- 
way." 

He  turns  to  her  with  that  strange  intensity  which  al- 
ways seems  to  give  her  a  tiny  thrill. 

"I  believe  you  don't  give  one  continental  damn, 
Ruby,"  he  says. 


194  THE  BALANCE 

"About  you?"  she  responds  contemptuously.  It  is 
a  queer  fighting  spirit  this  mood  of  his  arouses.  Does 
he  never  think  of  anything  except  himself?  "Go  tell 
yourself  a  joke.  You've  been  grouching  around  for 
weeks.  Quit  bein'  so  sorry  for  yourself."  She  knows 
this  will  enrage  him.  Somehow,  she  is  never  satisfied 
until  he  is  mad. 

"Oh,  hell!"  he  says  angrily.  This  girl  is  the  devil. 
What  is  it  about  her  that  keeps  him  chasing  her?  She 
isn't  so  cursed  attractive. 

I  fear  it  is  because  you  cannot  dominate  her,  Mr. 
Bantry,  and  so  will  not  give  up.  There  is  in  your 
mind  no  thought  of  marriage,  however.  Mr.  Bantry 
leaves  marriage  for  those  who  care  for  it.  He  does  not 
care  to  be  anybody's  meal  ticket.  No  one  shall  be  a 
drag  upon  the  career  of  John  Herbert  Bantry,  Bari- 
tone, late  of  Covent  Garden,  London,  England.  This 
handsome  Irishman  wishes  to  succeed;  and  measures 
everything  by  his  desire.  Is  there,  indeed,  any  one 
left  in  these  days  of  haste  who  does  not  care  about  suc- 
ceeding ?  He  is  but  following  the  fashion  of  the  century. 

"Let's  cut  this  thing  to-night,"  he  says,  now.  "Cut 
it,  and  go  have  a  quiet  little  dinner  by  ourselves  down 
on  Tenth  Street." 

Ruby  shakes  her  head. 

"I  promised  Ric  I'd  go,"  she  says.  "Anyway,  I 
want  to  see  what  Tappy's  done.  Aren't  you  keen  for 
Tremaine?" 

He  gives  a  scornful  grunt. 

"Chorus  girl  with  a  figure,"  he  says.  "I  knew  her 
when  she  was  pulling  down  about  twenty-five  a  week." 

"She  must  have  brains  then,"  says  Ruby.  She  says 
this,  top,  because  she  knows  it  will  not  please  Bantry. 

He  gives  a  scornful  laugh  this  time. 

"She's  wise,"  he  says.     "If  you  call  that  brains." 

They  are  alone  now  in  this  back  garden  of  the  Half- 
way House.  Suddenly  Bantry  reaches  across  and  takes 
Ruby's  hand. 

"Listen,"  he  says  intensely.     "You  come  with  me. 


THE  BALANCE  195 

Throw  over  Ricorton  for  once!  I  knew  you  before  you 
ever  set  eyes  on  him  and  his  Tappy." 

Ruby  looks  up  at  him  coolly. 

"  Forget  it,  Jack,"  she  says.  "You're  jealous,  that's 
all." 

Her  coolness  enrages  him. 

"You've  been  crazy  about  me  before,  Ruby,"  he  says 
passionately.  "I  know  it,  I've  felt  it.  I've  fascinated 
you,  got  you  going — like  that  night  at  Elitch  Gardens 
in  Denver,  don't  you  remember?  I  could  tell  it  in 
your  eyes!" 

A  little  flush  steals  into  Ruby's  cheek,  and  she  fum- 
bles with  her  gloves.  There  has  always  been  something 
about  Jack  Bantry  which  makes  her  pulses  tingle. 

"You  aren't  like  all  the  rest,  Ruby,"  he  goes  on. 
"There  is  something  about  you  that  makes  me  mad  to 
rouse  you — you're  so  cool!" 

"Am  I?"  she  murmurs.  She  is  not  so  self-possessed 
as  she  was  a  moment  since. 

"By  God!"  he  says  hoarsely.  "Haven't  you* any 
feelings  at  all?" 

Her  cheeks  burn  a  little  now,  but  she  looks  at  him 
easily,  her  flushed  chin  in  her  hands.  Did  he  but  know 
it,  there  is  a  tempest  within  her. 

"You  don't  even  miss  a  matinee  on  this  stuff,  do 
you,  Jack?"  is  what  she  says,  however. 

She  cannot  be  indifferent  to  his  masculinity,  this 
girl  with  the  sensuous  eyes  and  firm  lips,  he  thinks. 
There  seems  to  be  a  contradiction  somewhere  in  her, 
however;  her  eyes  and  manner  speaking  of  impetuous 
desire  which  all  the  rest  of  her  seems  to  hold  in  leash. 
She  has  felt  the  hot  strength  of  it  at  times,  and  it  has 
frightened  her.  She  does  not  always  trust  herself 
any  more.  Why  is  it,  she  wonders,  that  she  is  never 
satisfied,  these  days,  until  she  has  roused  the  man  be- 
side her  to  danger  pitch?  It  seems  to  have  a  fascina- 
tion for  her,  somehow.  Is  it  the  danger  that  attracts 
her  ?  Take  care,  Ruby — you  are  playing  with  a  world- 
old  fire,  and  many  have  been  scorched  before  now! 


196  THE  BALANCE 

He  has  disregarded  her  last  remark,  however,  and 
put  his  hand  upon  her  arm.  The  touch  of  her  sends  a 
cloud  to  his  brain. 

"  By  God,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  feeling  some- 
thing," he  says  in  his  low,  hoarse  voice.  "You  can't, 
I  tell  you 

She  stares  into  his  eyes  almost  as  if  hypnotized,  until 
she  feels  her  heart  beating  strangely.  A  moment  only, 
and  then  the  spell  breaks. 

"Svengali!"  she  laughs,  though  there  is  a  little  catch 
in  her  throat  that  makes  it  difficult.  "You  missed 
your  role,  Jack,  try  it  on  some  one  else " 

She  looks  at  him  with  a  fine  assumption  of  coolness. 

"Any  little  girl  will  do  for  you,  Jack,  and  Broadway's 
only  a  block  over!" 

"That's  a  lie,  Ruby,  and  you  know  it,"  he  says 
hotly.  His  passion  has  mastered  him  now.  "It's 
you — you!" 

There  is  no  one  in  the  little  garden  to  see  him,  now,  as 
his  grasp  closes  tightly  upon  her  arm.  Almost  in  an  in- 
stant he  has  crushed  her  to  him,  beating  down  her 
struggles — lasting  a  brief  moment — his  brain  on  fire. 
Just  an  instant,  too,  that  her  lips  crush  themselves 
upon  his,  her  whole  self  thrilling  with  the  contact;  and 
then  she  has  risen  breathlessly,  her  hands  clinging  a 
little  to  the  table  for  support. 

"By  God,  Ruby!     I  knew!"  he  says  hoarsely. 

The  blood  has  rushed  again  to  her  face  as  she  pulls  on 
her  gloves,  however,  and  she  looks  at  him  with  a  little 
smile  of  deviltry. 

"Did  you?"  she  says  lightly.  It  is  only  the  next  in- 
stant, and  yet  she  apparently  has  changed  completely. 
"Why,  I  thought  we  were  just  having  a  stage  kiss, 
Jack!" 

A  narrow  escape,  she  is  saying,  trembling  a  little  in- 
side. The  tempest  has  frightened  her  again.  It  is  with 
a  great  effort  that  she  is  appearing  calm  and  indifferent. 

"That  was  no  stage  kiss,"  he  says. 

"You  know!    You  have  had  all  kinds  of  experience, 


THE  BALANCE  197 

Jack!"  she  retorts.  In  her  relief  at  being  safe  again,  it 
does  not  occur  to  her  to  be  angry. 

He  eyes  her  a  moment,  anger  flashing  in  his  gaze. 

"All  right,"  angrily.  "Go  on  to  your  dinner!  I'll 
stay  here,  I  think!" 

She  tilts  her  hat  to  a  slightly  more  becoming  angle. 

"You  were  always  tactful,  anyway,  Jack,"  she  says 
artfully. 

"You  mean  I'll  be  in  Ricorton's  way  to-night!"  he 
says  savagely.  How  easily  she  plays  upon  him! 

"No  one  mentioned  Ric,"  she  answers  airily. 

He  takes  a  step  forward. 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  him?"  he  asks. 

She  laughs  lightly. 

"Oh,  who'll  be  the  next  President,  Jackie?"  she 
returns.  "Come  on.  It  is  time  for  the  dinner, 
now." 

He  stares  at  her  a  moment,  half  resentful,  half  con- 
scious of  being  chaffed. 

"Come  on,"  she  says  placatingly.  "Don't  spoil  the 
evening.  It's  going  to  be  a  swell  party." 

And  a  moment  later  he  has  followed  her  down  the  long 
passage  to  the  street,  and  they  are  headed  toward  Broad- 
way and  the  restaurant.  New  York  does  not  exist  for 
an  actor  below  Washington  Square  or  above  Columbus 
Circle,  except  in  tiny  fragments. 

It  is  after  the  party  is  all  over,  and  S.  Sydney  sits  in 
front  of  Sylvia's  divan,  the  door  downstairs  closing  on 
the  rest,  that  Sylvia  speaks  her  mind. 

"I  like  your  Ric,"  she  says,  sitting  cross-legged,  under 
the  lamplight.  "He  is  real.  He  will  do  something,  if 
some  one  doesn't  take  him  in." 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  agrees. 

"He  is  soft  hearted,"  he  admits.  He  hesitates  a  mo- 
ment. "How  do  you  like  Ruby?" 

Sylvia  steals  a  little  glance  at  him. 

"Is  she  engaged  to  Ric?"  she  asks. 

Sammy  smiles. 

"I  think  so,"  he  answers. 


198  THE  BALANCE 

"Then  she  isn't  quite  on  the  level,"  says  Sylvia.  "I 
noticed  her  with  Bantry." 

Sammy  is  amused. 

"You  are  feminine  after  all,  aren't  you?"  he  cries. 
"A  rival  in  attraction!  I  guess  you  are  all  alike!" 

"You're  a  pig,  Tappy!"  Sylvia  retorts  hotly. 
"What  a  thing  to  say!  Why  should  I  care  what  Ruby 
Williams  says  to  Jack  Bantry?  I  knew  your  friend 
Bantry  once.  I'm  giving  you  my  opinion,  that  is  all." 

"And  you  think  Ruby  flirts?"  he  queries.  He  has 
never  found  anything  before  with  which  to  tease  Sylvia 
Tremaine. 

Sylvia  sniffs. 

"Of  course  she  does.  A  woman  could  see  it  in  a 
second.  Oh,  you  men !  You  are  so  easily  taken  in ! " 

"Why,  I  thought  her  quite  attractive,"  says  Sammy 
adroitly. 

Sylvia  looks  at  him  pityingly. 

"You  are  like  them  all,  aren't  you,  Tappy?  A  pretty 
face  and  attractive  figure!" 

"Well,  they  aren't  to  be  despised!"  retorts  Sammy. 
"Particularly  by  Sylvia  Tremaine." 

Sylvia  sweeps  the  floor  with  her  courtesy. 

"Darling  Sydney!"  she  says. 

As  she  closes  the  door  behind  him  a  little  while  after, 
however,  there  is  a  meditative  look  in  her  eyes.  Good 
heavens,  is  she  starting  to  be  jealous  of  every  woman 
with  a  speck  of  charm  who  comes  near  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  ?  She  inspects  herself  quite  closely  in  her  mirror 
as  she  undresses.  Does  she  really  distrust  Ruby  Wil- 
liams, as  she  has  said  she  does?  Except  for  that  tiny 
feeling  in  her  heart  would  she  have  said  the  girl  was  an 
impulsive  creature,  generosity  personified? 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  WHICH  A  DEPRESSION  PLAYS  THE  DEUCE  WITH 
THEM  ALL,  AND  SAMMY  HEARS  SOME  Music 

IT  WAS  three  months  after  Sylvia's  party  that  the 
"Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  was  suddenly  withdrawn  from 
the  Players'  Theatre  after  only  one  week  of  its  much-ad- 
vertised fall  run  had  been  completed;  withdrawn,  even 
after  a  summer's  rest,  to  pine  away  in  the  shadow  of  neg- 
lect, dragging  out  a  miserable  existence  in  stock  years 
later,  and  dying  finally  in  Wichita,  Kansas,  at  the  hands 
of  a  summer  company  from  St.  Louis. 

Before  any  premature  applauding  is  done,  however, 
let  me  hasten  to  add  that  it  was  not  S.  Sydney  Tappan, 
urged  on  by  a  tardy  conscience  and  Carrie's  prayers, 
who  withdrew  it.  Its  withdrawal  was  but  one  of  the 
many  thousand  results  of  one  of  those  periodical  storms 
of  industrial  depression  which  seem  to  sweep  over  our 
economic  world  every  so  often — storms  for  which  no  one 
can  seem  to  find  either  explanation  or  remedy  except 
the  economic  heretics  and  cranks  to  whom,  very  prop- 
erly, we  do  not  pay  the  least  attention.  We  must  be 
consistent,  even  if  we  have  the  storms. 

Indeed,  it  is  only  occasionally,  when  one  buys  a  paper- 
covered  book  from  some  gentleman  upon  a  barrel,  and 
reads  it  to  see  what  possibly  could  have  induced  the 
man  to  mount  his  keg,  that  we  can  see  these  explana- 
tions; and  have,  perhaps,  a  moment  or  two  of  doubt  of 
the  smooth  gentlemen  from  whom  we  usually  derive  our 
economic  inspiration.  For  they  seem  quite  reasonable, 
these  theories,  strangely  enough,  until  we  have  dis- 
covered their  name.  Single  tax!  Socialism!  They 
are  done  for  then,  of  course,  and  plausibility,  weirdly 

199 


200  THE  BALANCE 

enough,  becomes  insidiousness.  The  power  of  a 
name! 

Chambers  of  Commerce,  however,  and  associations  of 
manufacturers  do  not  buy  paper-covered  books  from 
gentlemen  who  so  far  forget  themselves  as  to  stand  on 
barrels.  So,  I  suppose,  they  are  immune  from  the 
general  doubt.  The  slums  are  not  yet  crowded  enough 
to  suit  their  boosters'  committees,  not  enough  attention 
given  at  Washington  to  the  special  needs  of  their  pros- 
perous businesses.  The  leaders  of  the  workingmen, 
these  business  men !  They  will  lead  them  to  prosperity ! 
Well,  hardly.  Each  man  leads  himself  in  industry  to- 
day. It  is  only  once  in  a  great  while  that  we  find  a  man 
who  can  forget  his  own  personal  profit  long  enough  to 
stand  upon  a  barrel  and  offer  us  an  explanation  of  our  ills. 

The  particular  depression  which  played  the  deuce  with 
our  Sammy,  however,  did  not  seem  to  differ  very  much 
from  any  of  the  others  we  have  all  seen,  except  in  its 
duration.  In  this  respect  it  displayed  a  perseverance 
which  would  have  earned  it  a  high  mark  in  almost  any 
vocation.  Industrial  depressions  strike  at  the  theatri- 
cal business  as  with  a  dagger,  and  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin"  was  among  the  early  victims  of  the  knife.  It  was 
not  that  the  fear  of  God  prevented  temporarily  em- 
barrassed people  from  seeing  Sylvia  Tremaine  while  they 
still  flocked  to  see  Maude  Adams  or  Forbes-Robertson. 
It  was  the  financial  condition  of  Messrs.  Friedman  and 
Marshall  that  forced  the  issue.  The  tour  of  their  com- 
panies through  the  industrial  towns  of  Ohio,  Pennsyl- 
vania, and  part  of  Indiana  seemed  destined  to  bankrupt 
them,  when  taken  in  connection  with  conditions  upon 
the  Pacific  Coast  and  the  Northwest. 

Gentlemen  who  mine  coal  by  weight,  or  work  in  steel 
mills  at  so  much  per  hour,  or  spend  their  waking  hours 
in  potteries  or  factories  can  only  buy  back  a  certain 
fixed  percentage  of  what  they  produce,  if  a  profit  must 
be  added  to  the  price  before  they  can  buy  it.  Once,  then, 
our  wealthy  friends  have  been  surfeited  with  everything 
that  can  tempt  money  from  them,  there  is  little  left  for 


THE  BALANCE  201 

us  to  do  but  look  abroad.  We  will  sell  them  all  that  re- 
mains! Wherefore  our  Open  Doors,  our  Foreign  Mar- 
kets, our  Tariffs — and  our  Troubles.  Whether,  in  this 
particular  depression,  our  foreign  market  has  failed,  or 
some  diplomatic  European  neighbour  has  taken  it  for  its 
own  exploitation  no  one  knows.  The  only  phenomena 
visible  are  that  the  merchants'  stocks  do  not  move,  be- 
cause their  customers  apparently  are  hard  up  and  can- 
not buy,  and  so  the  factories  must  shut  down  and  throw 
more  possible  purchasers  out  of  work — a  vicious  circle 
without  end.  Possibly,  upon  this  occasion  when  our 
Sammy  has  been  robbed  of  his  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin," 
we  have  been  playing  the  part  of  some  one  else's  foreign 
market  and  have  failed  them  at  the  wrong  moment! 

It  was  the  wrong  moment  for  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  at  all 
events.  The  people  had  no  money  for  the  theatre  that 
winter. 

In  vain  Sylvia  scolded,  wept,  and  pleaded,  ending  up 
with  the  name  of  nearly  every  creature  in  the  Zoo. 
Friedman  remained  obdurate  for  once,  resting  heavily 
beneath  the  name  of  Pig.  No,  she  would  have  to  play 
in  Boston,  in  a  revival  of  "The  Betrayer."  She  had  never 
played  Boston  out  in  that.  The  offer  for  the  Players' 
Theatre  was  too  good  to  refuse,  considering  the  frightful 
losses  of  their  other  companies.  There  were  no  royal- 
ties upon  "The  Betrayer,"  and  S.  Sydney  Tappan  was  re- 
ceiving 6  per  cent.  She  could  revive  this  "Lady  in  the 
Lion  Skin"  next  season.  It  cost  some  three  hundred  dol- 
lars less  a  week  to  run  "The  Betrayer"  also.  It  was  in- 
sanity to  do  anything  else,  in  view  of  conditions. 

It  was  with  tears  in  her  eyes  that  she  told  S.  Sydney 
Tappan. 

"Isn't  it  just  too  mean!"  she  cried  rebelliously. 
"After  I  got  you  to  write  the  thing  for  me.  A  paltry 
twelve  thousand  dollars  in  royalties!  It  makes  me 
sick,  Tappy.  The  Pigs!" 

And  she  shook  her  strong  little  fist  at  the  absent 
Friedman. 

But  the  depression  is  creeping  daily,  now,  from  the  in- 


202  THE  BALANCE 

dustrial  districts  first,  into  the  big  cities  and  then  the 
towns;  hardly  felt,  as  yet,  in  those  villages  which  can  be 
called  farming  communities,  and  which  have  not  yet 
been  enough  affected  by  our  industrial  organization  to 
feel  its  ills,  real  or  manipulated,  but  which  read  the 
newspapers  and  hang  tight  to  their  purses  at  the  first 
headlines  of  panic.  Old  men  with  independent  in- 
comes from  wheat  lands  in  the  Red  River  Valley,  or 
alfalfa  fields  in  Kansas  and  Nebraska,  cornfields  in 
Iowa,  or  apple  orchards  in  Oregon  or  cattle  on  the  green, 
undulating  foothills  of  Wyoming,  or  mines  in  rugged 
Montana — old  men  sitting  now  in  Mason  City,  Iowa, 
Decatur,  111.,  Manistee,  Mich.,  Owensboro,  Ky.,  sitting 
and  gossiping  with  other  men  whose  incomes  flow  from 
railroad  bonds  and  coal  road  bonds,  or  steel  and  copper 
stock,  with  here  and  there  a  real  industrial  of  the  com- 
mercial East ;  the  East  of  chimney-spotted  New  England, 
sooty  Pennsylvania,  garden-raising  New  Jersey,  spec- 
tacular New  York — these  men  are  curtailing  all  their 
purchases,  and  the  expenditures  of  their  families,  until 
the  iron  ring  of  depression  is  welded  tight,  and  news- 
papers all  over  the  country  from  Galveston  and  New 
Orleans  to  St.  Paul  and  Seattle  get  out  desperate 
slogans,  "Buy  it  now!  Do  your  shopping  now!"  and 
other  worried  gentlemen,  in  clothing  factories,  in  auto- 
mobile shops,  wonder  if  their  new  advertising,  their 
latest  bowing  before  Mercury — to  whom,  they  recog- 
nize, all  mankind  is  paying  homage  to-day — can  still  be 
used.  Prosperity  Overcoats,  Symbol  of  Success  Motor 
Cars,  Men  of  Means  Scarves,  Prosperous  Gentlemen's 
Cigarettes  halt  a  moment  just  before  the  launching, 
while  their  sponsors  scan  the  commercial  sky  and  re- 
solve, the  next  time,  to  vote  some  other  ticket. 

Twelve  thousand  dollars!  It  seems  like  a  great  deal 
of  money  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  though  not  so  much  as  it 
would  have  a  short  time  ago.  Eight  thousand  of  it, 
however,  has  not  been  paid,  and  there  are  ugly  rumours 
of  a  receivership  for  Friedman  and  Marshall.  The 
show  business  is  uncertain.  Our  Sammy,  too,  has 


THE  BALANCE  203 

nearly  three  thousand  dollars  in  the  "Rose  of  Asia,"  which 
has  reached  rehearsal  stage,  and  wants  but  two  weeks 
before  it  is  ready  for  the  booking  agents  to  look  at.  "The 
Honeymooners"  has  just  finished  playing  its  final  run  at 
the  Alhambra  and  is  upon  the  shelf,  after  having  made 
our  Sammy  some  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  in  the 
course  of  its  varied  career. 

He  could  wish,  however,  that  his  financial  condition 
were  a  trifle  different  in  view  of  the  rather  dubious 
outlook  just  ahead.  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  not  been 
playing  the  part  of  a  hermit  these  months,  and  does 
not  seem  to  have  a  great  deal  more  actual  cash  in 
hand  than  when  he  came  down  to  New  York  some 
sixteen  months  ago.  He  will  need  the  six  hundred 
dollars  he  has  in  the  bank  if  this  depression  holds  for 
very  long.  Ricorton  will  not  be  much  help.  The 
musician  seems  a  great  deal  like  a  child  with  the  world 
for  his  nursery.  He  and  Ruby  have  but  little  money 
now  even  after  a  successful  season  in  vaudeville. 
They  have  spent  the  greater  part  of  their  savings  dur- 
ing the  summer.  It  seems  characteristic  of  the  artistic 
temperament;  the  morrow  can  take  care  of  itself. 
Well,  usually,  the  morrow  can  be  no  worse  than  to-day 
— and  perhaps  that  is  the  reason. 

I  think,  however,  that  you  are  going  to  be  glad  that 
you  kept  the  second-floor  room  on  West  Twenty-ninth 
Street,  Sammy.  The  ballroom  now  is  vacant,  too, 
for  Ruby.  The  lady  who  giggled  so  at  night  has  been 
taken  from  the  river  at  Twenty-third  Street — and 
left  a  month's  rent  unpaid.  That  was  M'sieu  Clouet's 
only  addition  to  the  reporter's  story  in  the  World. 

It  may  seem  strange  to  some  of  you  that  Carrie 
should  have  heard  of  the  withdrawal  of  the  "Lady  in 
the  Lion  Skin"  and  not  have  known  the  real  reason 
why.  Well,  they  do  not  need  to  read  the  newspapers 
in  the  Settlement  districts  of  Melchester  to  know  that 
a  depression  exists.  It  is  a  grim  reality  spelled  in 
words  of  hunger  and  despair.  Carrie  had  not  had 
time  to  read  newspapers  for  some  two  months  before 


204  THE  BALANCE 

the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  was  withdrawn.  She  might 
not  have  known  it  then  had  not  Mrs.  Schroeder  brought 
her  the  clipping  from  the  local  dramatic  news  from 
New  York.  A  brief  sentence  or  two  it  was,  saying 
that  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  had  been  withdrawn 
for  the  present  owing  to  certain  difficulties,  and  that 
Miss  Tremaine  would  appear  again  in  Boston  in  "The 
Betrayer,"  as  a  result. 

The  spirit  in  which  Mrs.  Schroeder  brought  it  to 
her  daughter  would  be  hard  to  describe.  It  was  such 
a  mixture  of  pride,  and  curiosity,  and  affection,  too. 
Since  her  daughter  left  the  house  on  Washington 
Avenue  for  this  gloomy  Settlement — it  is  gloomy  to 
Mrs.  Schroeder — she  has  not  been  quite  so  sure,  quite 
so  dogmatic  in  her  ways.  Dimly  she  has  realized  that 
this  Settlement  and  S.  Sydney  Tappan  and  the  "Lady 
in  the  Lion  Skin"  and  her  daughter  are  all  bound  up 
together  in  some  odd  way.  Just  how,  she  does  not 
know,  but  she  is  wondering.  An  essayist  has  said 
that  after  thirty-five  a  great  many  of  us  humans  close 
the  blinds  of  our  intellects,  and  go  to  bed.  If  this 
is  true,  Mrs.  Schroeder  is  up  again 'and  peeking  out 
the  blinds.  Her  successful  spouse,  however,  will  sleep 
on  until  they  fire  the  house  beneath  him. 

In  Carrie's  mind  there  comes  a  great  tenderness  for 
Sammy,  as  she  reads  the  little  news  item.  There  is 
not  a  moment's  doubt  for  her  as  to  the  reason  why  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  has  done  this  thing. 

He  has  decided  to  be  some  one  in  the  world,  after  all! 
She  hopes  he  does  not  think,  however,  that  it  is  enough 
merely  to  withdraw  this  play.  That  is  only  a  beginning 
of  retracing  all  his  steps.  He  must  do  that,  of  course, 
before  he  can  step  out  in  the  right  direction;  but  he 
must  not  stop  with  a  withdrawal!  The  little  hurt  she 
has  felt,  at  first,  because  he  has  not  written  her  about 
it  is  quickly  assuaged  by  her  pride  in  his  achievement. 
She  writes  him: 

"Dear  Sammy,  I  haven't  any  words  in  which  to  tell  you 
what  I  think  of  your  withdrawal  of  the  play.  I  only  hope 


THE  BALANCE  205 

I  haven't  hurt  you  too  much  in  what  I  have  said  about  it. 
You  can  have  no  conception  of  what  a  feeling  it  gives  me  to 
know  that  your  name  is  no  longer  before  the  world  beneath  its 
title.  I  think  it  has  made  me  miserable  in  the  past  principally 
because  I  realized  how  futile  all  my  efforts  for  these  working  girls 
of  mine  were,  with  their  ten-cent  store  jewellery,  and  sale  shoes 
and  cheap  underwear,  when  they  could  see  things  like  your  play. 
It  does  not  take  much  to  put  wrong  ideas  in  young  girls'  heads. 
And  they  are  so  constitutionally  good,  most  all  of  them!  I  wonder 
if  you  can  see  what  I  mean?  My  little  efforts  seem  so  hopeless 
against  the  immense,  intangible  evil  you  could  wield  against  me — 
and  did  wield,  unthinkingly!  for  I  know,  of  course,  that  you  would 
never  have  done  it  intentionally. 

"The  fine  thing  to  me,  Sammy,  is  that  you  could  count  the  cost 
to  yourself  of  withdrawing  that  play,  and  yet  do  it  just  the  same! 
That  means  something  to  me.  You  can  never  know  what  it  does 
mean  to  me,  even  here  on  Hague  Street.  I  am  not  expecting  you 
to  revolutionize  the  world,  of  course;  but  your  influence,  exerted 
in  the  way  you  can  exert  it,  will  be  the  equal  of  the  efforts  of  hun- 
dreds of  people  such  as  I  am.  Though  we  have  our  mission. 
There  is  a  part  of  Hague  Street  where  but  one  kind  of  preaching 
carries  conviction — and  that  is  example. 

"I  won't  let  loose  my  enthusiasm  on  you  just  yet,  however.  I 
still  have  it  in  quantity,  though — minus  that  immediate  optimism! 
I  wonder  do  you  remember  when  you  first  told  me  about  those 
imaginary  hockey  sticks  you  said  people  put  in  your  stockings  for 
Christmas?  That  is  just  the  way  I  feel  about  all  the  unthinking 
people  who  are  doing  so  much  harm,  so  heedlessly.  The  Meanies! 

"At  least  we  had  our  youth,  Sammy,  our  bright  sun-shadowed 
youth.  These  poor  souls  among  whom  I  live  never  seem  to  have 
had  even  that.  Just  think  a  moment,  of  your  life,  with  all  its 
youth  left  out!  It  is  bad  enough  in  good  times,  but  at  present 
there  seems  to  be  a  depression,  and  a  kind  of  suffering  is  beginning 
about  which  I  do  not  dare  to  think.  So  many  of  the  shops  are 
closing  down,  and  throwing  girls  out  of  work. 

"I  am  in  despair  about  one  of  my  girls,  here — Martha  Grossman. 
Poor  dear,  she  seems  more  sensitive  than  most  to  her  surroundings. 
She  has  been  saving  for  so  long  to  go  to  the  Northfield  Conference, 
'to  see  if  there  is  really  anything  fine  or  decent  in  the  world!' 
though  on  what  she  has  been  saving  I  can't  imagine,  as  she  has 
always  done  her  own  cooking,  washing,  and  housekeeping!  But 
she  lost  her  position  yesterday,  and  so  will  never  get  to  Northfield 
now,  I  suppose.  We  need  all  our  money  for  real  relief.  If  only 
she  doesn't  get  discouraged!  Their  despair  is  what  I  fear.  You 
can  never  know  how  I  hate  this  depression. 

"John  Rouse  is  preaching  to  all  the  strikers  nights  to  leave  the 
labour  unions  and  join  the  I.  W.  W.  I  am  so  afraid  that  this 
depression  will  make  what  he  says  ring  true  to  them.  Practically 


206  THE  BALANCE 

all  of  the  clerks  and  the  girls  have  joined  the  new  labour  union,  but 
it  looks  to  me  as  if  the  Federation  of  Labour  will  have  its  own 
affairs  to  look  after  this  winter  without  helping  any  one  new. 
And  the  stores  won't  need  their  clerks  so  badly,  either.  That  is 
why  I  am  so  afraid  they  may  believe  in  Rouse.  Why  shouldn't 
they  believe  him?  The  doctrine  of  sabotage,  of  destruction,  is  so 
frightful,  to  my  ideas.  And  yet  how  can  they  think  that  morality 
is  anything  else  than  hypocrisy,  when  it  doesn't  govern  anything 
in  the  industrial  world  but  conversation  ?  I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  blame  them — our  ideas  have  simply  made  a  hell  on  earth  for 
them  to  live  in;  why  should  they  think  them  right? 

"There  is  so  much  for  you  to  do,  Sammy!  Simply  setting  people 
right,  showing  people  how  to  think.  I  sometimes  think  that  no 
one  cares  to  use  his  or  her  brains  any  more.  But  you  could  make 
them  think,  and  make  them  pay  two  dollars  for  the  privilege,  too. 
How  I  hope  you  will!  Anyway,  you  have  withdrawn  the  play — 
and  I  can  think  of  nothing  else. 

"Ever  yours, 

"CARRIE." 

What  a  raving  Sammy  it  was  who  finished  that 
letter,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  position!  With- 
draw the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin,"  on  his  own  account, 
and  lose  six  hundred  dollars  a  week!  From  where  had 
she  gotten  this  inspiration?  The  irony  of  it!  A 
letter  of  congratulation  when  he  had  been  holding 
his  head  for  ten  days  in  indignation  at  the  selfish  action 
of  Messrs.  Friedman  and  Marshall! 

To  his  credit,  I  do  not  think  the  idea  ever  occurred 
to  him  of  writing  Carrie  and  telling  her  that  she  was 
right,  and  he  had  heroically  withdrawn  it  for  the 
reason  she  had  given.  Perhaps  there  was  a  little 
memory  left  of  certain  letters  from  college  to  his  mother. 
And  yet,  without  that  memory,  I  think  our  Sammy  had 
become  too  much  of  a  man,  then,  to  stoop  so  low  as 
that.  He  always  told  Carrie  the  truth.  What  made 
him  rave  the  most  was  that  he  could  not  withdraw 
the  accursed  thing  now,  even  if  he  wanted  to!  Mr. 
Friedman  had  done  it  for  him  first.  There  was  only 
left  to  him  the  ignominy  of  writing  Carrie  and  telling 
her  that  his  heroism  had  been  forced  upon  him.  And 
that  was  all!  His  chance  to  palliate  that  bald  answer 
had  been  taken  from  him  by  the  depression.  It  was 


THE  BALANCE  207 

one  of  the  only  times  when  he  could  find  absolutely  no 
heroic  role  left  to  play.  Do  you  wonder  that  he  raved  ? 

It  was  when  his  period  of  raging  was  over  that  he 
sat  down  and  sent  a  check  for  fifty  dollars  to  the  account 
of  Martha  Grossman!  At  least,  she  need  not  miss 
Northfield  if  it  meant  so  much  to  her.  He  did  not 
enclose  a  note  to  Carrie.  He  was  a  very  queer  Sammy. 

It  was  from  the  check  that  Carrie  knew  he  had 
gotten  her  letter,  and  she  wrote  and  thanked  him  for 
the  thing  he  had  done  for  Martha.  He  was  rapidly 
retrieving  his  pedestal  in  Carrie's  mind  those  weeks  of 
the  early  winter. 

But  though  he  tried  a  dozen  times,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  answer  her  letter.  Several  times  he 
even  sat  down  with  the  pen  in  his  hand,  but  he  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  what  he  wished  to  say,  and  no  words 
would  come.  Some  days  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
would  ever  have  withdrawn  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin" 
at  all.  On  others,  he  was  positive  that,  had  the  play 
been  still  running,  he  would  have  telephoned  Friedman 
the  moment  he  got  the  letter  and  had  the  thing  taken 
off.  Still  others,  he  wondered  when  Sylvia  would  be 
able  to  use  it  again,  and  what  royalty  he  would  ask 
for  when  the  time  came.  In  it  all,  however,  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  write 
another  play  like  his  first  one.  Carrie's  sentences  had 
sunk  deep  into  his  soul,  and  the  zest  was  gone  forever 
from  a  drama  of  that  kind.  He  knew,  too,  that  it 
was  hopeless  to  try  to  dodge  the  issue  with  Carrie. 
He  could  not  write  and  not  mention  the  play  or  its 
withdrawal.  She  would  write  him  at  once,  in  that 
case,  demanding  an  explanation.  It  was  why  he  ended 
up  by  not  writing  at  all.  I  think  his  contempt  for 
himself  would  have  been  greater,  too,  had  it  not  been 
overshadowed  by  a  fear  that  grew  more  menacing  to 
him  every  day.  Would  he  ever  be  able  to  write  an- 
other play,  now  that  his  first  one  was  done  for? 

He  is  not  worried  yet  for  his  future,  however,  be- 
cause no  definite  purpose  has  circumscribed  his  horizon. 


208  THE  BALANCE 

The  steadily  increasing  length  of  the  bread  line  at 
Fleischmann's,  the  slow  increase  of  all-night  lodgers  on 
the  cheerless  benches  of  the  city  parks,  the  mounting 
proportion  of  jobless  Thespians  upon  Broadway,  the 
growing  throngs  around  the  soap-box  orators  upon 
the  East  Side  of  nights,  the  swelling  crowd  about  the 
want-ad  counters  of  the  newspapers — crowds  that 
hurry  in,  and  slink  out  quickly  lest  some  one  see  them, 
that  give  their  plea  for  work  to  the  superior  clerk  with 
some  feeble  jest  meant  to  cover  and  allay  the  mortify- 
ing humiliation  of  their  act — all  these  have  not  yet 
impressed  themselves  upon  his  consciousness.  The 
depression  is  only  reaching  out  its  tentacles  now, 
thrusting  upward  from  the  tenements  of  the  poor  into 
the  world  of  commerce  and  of  art. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan's  first  intimation  that  this  vague 
depression,  of  which  he  reads  daily  in  the  papers, 
can  become  a  grim  reality  to  him  is  when  Hagaman 
announces  that  he  cannot  secure  satisfactory  booking 
for  the  new  "Rose  of  Asia"  until  the  storm  blows  over. 

"They're  cutting  down,  Tappy,"  he  says  grimly, 
after  one  of  his  daily  visits  to  the  United  Offices  up- 
stairs. "I  can't  get  work  for  some  of  my  animals 
even!  It's  the  boobs  from  the  legit  that  are  doing 
all  the  damage.  They'll  work  for  pretty  near  nothing 
just  to  fill  in  the  time.  There  is  nothing  doing  all 
right,  for  some  little  while,  now.  Unless  you  want 
to  play  Poli  for  four-fifty  a  week!" 

But  Sammy  will  lose  nearly  fifty  dollars  a  week  on 
terms  of  that  kind,  and  cannot  consider  it.  Stars 
with  reputation,  who  will  draw  on  their  name,  are 
plentiful  since  so  many  road  productions  have  been 
withdrawn.  It  is  these  people  who  are  crowding  out 
the  regular  vaudeville  teams  and  sketches. 

"It's  just  a  case  of  wait,  Claude,"  he  says  lightly. 
He  is  rather  used  to  having  things  go  wrong,  our 
Sammy.  This  past  year  and  a  half  has  always  seemed 
a  little  out  of  drawing  to  him.  Success  is  not  his  nat- 
ural conception  of  his  environment. 


THE  BALANCE  209 

To  Ric  and  Ruby  the  news,  somehow,  does  not  appear 
overwhelming.  So  long  as  Ricorton  has  money  in 
his  pocket  he  will  never  worry.  In  Ruby  there  is 
always  a  tiny  thrill  of  fear  when  poverty  confronts 
her.  She  knows  the  fate  of  so  many  of  those  chorus 
people  she  has  known  since  first  she  left  Utica.  But 
she  has  a  deathless  faith  in  her  own  lucky  star,  and 
the  thrill  soon  passes.  She  has  been  out  of  work 
before,  and  something  always  seems  to  turn  up.  Mr. 
Micawber  would  not  seem  unreasonable  to  her.  In 
her  mind,  however,  there  is  the  realization  that  she 
is  no  longer  a  young  girl,  as  girls  are  rated  upon  the 
stage,  and  that  as  yet  she  has  heaped  up  no  reserve  of 
experience  upon  which  to  draw,  once  youth  and  beauty 
are  gone.  She  has  always  played  practically  the  same 
parts,  and  trusted  to  her  voice  and  looks  to  carry  her 
to  success.  There  is  but  one  safe  road  for  the  woman 
who  must  stay  upon  the  stage,  unmarried,  and  without 
exceptional  genius:  it  is  the  road  of  character  acting — 
and  this  as  yet  she  has  never  followed. 

Well,  she  will  make  a  start  this  next  season,  if  she 
can.  She  is  about  thirty  now,  and  surely  will  be  at- 
tractive a  few  years  more. 

She  does  not  like  to  think  of  the  future,  always. 
There  are  times  when  she  envies,  with  an  envy  that  is 
almost  a  pain,  those  girls  she  once  knew  in  Utica,  who 
have  married  now,  and  have  homes  and  children,  and  a 
husband  who  comes  home  at  six  o'clock. 

That  is  life,  perhaps.  Yet  they  do  not  seem  to  think 
so,  most  of  them.  They  envy  her,  and  her  wide  views 
of  life,  her  freedom  and  her  clothes.  She  could  never 
marry  a  man  like  their  husbands.  In  fact,  until  she 
met  this  fair-haired  musician,  she  has  never  seen  a  man 
she  would  care  to  marry.  Jack  Bantry!  Ugh!  He 
is  hateful  to  her  at  times.  Why  does  she  ever  have 
anything  to  do  with  him  ?  Marriage  with  Ric  will  never 
be  a  settled  life,  she  knows,  either.  He  is  half  genius, 
half  vagabond  Bohemian,  and  his  gift  will  make  him 
little  money  until  after  he  is  dead.  He  seldom  has  a 


210  THE  BALANCE 

chance  to  use  it  these  days,  too;  composing  is  not  aided 
by  banging  the  piano  in  a  rehearsal  hall  from  ten  till  six. 
She  feels  the  tenderness  she  might  have  for  a  child  for 
this  tender-hearted  man  who  treats  her  with  such  un- 
failing courtesy,  in  spite  of  the  tawdry  surroundings  of 
their  lives.  Somehow,  she  cannot  feel  poor  or  second 
class  when  Ricorton  is  around.  They  are  simply  poor 
for  the  present,  standing  upon  the  verge  of  great  deeds ! 
If  only  she  could  protect  him  from  the  sordidness  of 
their  present! 

It  is  a  queer  feeling,  this  love  for  Ricorton  that  stirs 
her  so.  It  is  seldom  passion;  and  yet  she  knows  how 
easily  it  could  be,  if  he  wished  it  above  all  the  rest.  It 
is  genuine  love  that  Ricorton  inspires  in  this  curiously 
blended  nature  of  hers.  She  feels  the  same  happiness, 
the  same  safety  she  can  dimly  remember  experiencing 
in  her  father's  arms,  with  now,  however,  an  added  thrill. 
It  is  only  because  Ricorton  does  not  press  his  suit  quite 
passionately  enough  that  she  has  not  married  him 
already.  There  is  a  strain  of  primitive  shyness  in  Ruby, 
a  desire  to  be  surprised,  perhaps  conquered;  an  out- 
growth possibly  of  her  hot  blood,  that  makes  her  inter- 
pose deft  obstacles  to  his  easy  conquest.  Perhaps,  too, 
this  is  why  the  brutal  strength  of  Bantry  has  such  a  fas- 
cination for  her  at  times.  He  is  elemental,  dangerous. 
How  many  obstacles  can  he  surmount? 

To  the  Irishman,  the  news  that  booking  cannot  be 
secured  for  some  time  is  not  terrifying.  He  has  floated 
now,  over  almost  all  the  world,  and  Williamson's, 
Melbourne,  Australia,  seems  the  same  to  him  as  Hong 
Kong,  China,  Covent  Garden,  London,  the  La  Salle, 
Chicago,  or  Broadway,  New  York.  Life  is  change,  and 
this  is  but  one  of  the  changes.  He  does  not  spend  all  his 
money,  either.  He  is  thrifty.  He  has  saved  enough 
by  this  time  so  that  depressions  do  not  frighten  him. 
He  will  never  lend  money,  this  strange  Irishman,  and  in 
the  theatrical  profession  that  is  the  final  word. 

It  is  the  flat  refusal  of  Friedman  and  Marshall  to  pay 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  a  cent  of  his  eight  thousand  back 


THE  BALANCE  211 

royalties  that  first  awakens  Sammy  to  his  situation. 
His  writing  has  been  chaotic  lately,  and  he  has  no  play 
which  he  can  complete  and  offer  for  sale.  He  is  sure 
that  he  could  sell  another  like  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin" 
to  several  producing  firms  if  he  had  it  just  now.  His 
name  would  suffice  at  this  present  moment,  with  the 
other  play  so  fresh  in  Broadway's  mind.  But  there  is 
something  wrong  with  his  dramatic  gift  these  days.  He 
cannot  seem  to  settle  down  to  constructing  anything. 
He  has  been  overrun  with  details  for  a  long  time  in 
stagingthe  "Rose  of  Asia.'*  Perhaps  that  is  it.  And  yet, 
there  is  something  else.  He  seems  to  lack  inspiration. 
He  cannot  take  that  fancy  to  any  of  the  ideas  which 
present  themselves,  the  fancy  which  was  always  so 
necessary  for  S.  Sydney  Tappan  when  he  produced  a 
thing  worth  while. 

He  is  worried  to-night,  as  they  all  sit  in  the  room 
on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  and  make  light  of  their 
troubles.  Perhaps,  too,  the  vague  uncertainty  with 
which  all  his  relations  with  Carrie  are  now  clouded  has 
served  to  keep  him  depressed. 

"I'll  give  most  of  'em  a  week!"  Ruby  is  saying.  She 
is  flat  upon  the  bed,  and  is  referring  to  the  chorus  of  the 
"Rose  of  Asia."  "They'd  stick  longer  for  you,  Tappy, 
than  for  any  one  else,  but  they've  got  to  eat!" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  we  can  get  a  new  crowd  and  teach  the 
thing  all  over  again,"  says  Tappy  wearily.  It  is  dis- 
couraging, this  necessity  of  starting  all  anew.  The 
Thespians  he  has  gathered  together  will  have  to  scatter 
like  wolves  for  food,  if  booking  is  not  forthcoming. 

Ricorton  looks  up  from  the  gas  plate,  where  he  is 
standing  in  rapt  absorption  over  a  new  dish  of  his  own 
concoction. 

"What  do  you  hear  from  Sylvia?"  he  asks. 

"  She  is  in  Boston,"  Sammy  answers.  "  'The  Betrayer' 
again!" 

"Remick  said  they  would  consider  those  two  last 
songs  I  took  over  there,"  Ricorton  adds  as  an  after- 
thought. 


212  THE  BALANCE 

"I  suppose  their  own  stuff  gets  first  chance,"  Sammy 
says.  He  means  the  song  writers  who  compose  on 
salary,  and  whose  work  belongs  to  their  house.  "And 
it  is  all  such  poor  stuff,  too!" 

He  stares  at  the  cracked  mirror. 

"Oh,  it  all  makes  me  sick!"  he  adds  despondently. 
"I'm  going  out!" 

He  is  very  gloomy  to-night,  our  Sammy,  as  he  takes 
his  way  along  Seventh  Avenue  to  Broadway  and  Forty- 
second  Street.  It  is  very  dispiriting  to  be  obliged  to  put 
this  "Rose  of  Asia"  in  the  storehouse  just  when  the  time 
for  showing  it  seemed  to  be  at  hand.  He  resents  the 
glitter  and  magnificence  of  the  lighted  streets,  of  the 
great  electric  signs,  of  the  gay  theatres,  because  they 
hold  out  no  invitation  to  him.  He  can  go  and  see 
almost  any  of  these  plays  which  are  holding  the  boards 
to-night,  by  merely  presenting  his  card  at  the  box  office; 
but  he  does  not  wish  to  see  them.  He  wishes  to  be 
alone,  he  thinks.  Some  place  where  he  can  think.  It 
is  time  he  considered  seriously  this  life  of  his,  his  pres- 
ent situation.  Where  can  one  think  in  New  York  ? 

Let  us  hold  pur  breaths  a  little,  S.  Sydney  Tappan  is 
going  to  try  thinking! 

The  sound  of  distant  violins  catches  his  ear  as  he 
passes  Sixth  Avenue  on  his  way  to  the  library;  and  he 
stops  a  moment,  beside  the  bulk  of  Carnegie  Hall.  It 
is  the  Russian  Philharmonic  Orchestra,  he  sees  by  the 
posters.  This  will  be  better  than  the  library.  He  has 
not  heard  any  good  music  since  his  mother  died. 

They  are  finishing  a  suite  by  Rimsky  Korsakov  as  he 
takes  a  seat  in  the  rear,  and  in  a  moment  are  beginning 
something  by  Grieg,  he  does  not  know  what,  except 
that  it  has  the  unmistakable  harmonies  of  the  Nor- 
wegian. 

It  is  an  odd  Sammy  who  sits  here  to-night,  and  listens 
to  the  haunting  sweep  of  the  strings.  In  his  mind 
memories  are  crowding:  memories  of  nights  of  child- 
hood when  he  lay  upstairs  and  his  mother  sang  in  the 
drawing-room  below;  memories  of  summer  nights  on 


THE  BALANCE  213 

Hawthorne  Street,  of  evenings  in  Paris  and  Vienna  and 
a  little  boy  in  a  wide  white  collar  hanging  over  the  plush 
balconies  of  an  opera  house,  his  eyes  wide  at  the  wonder 
workers  in  the  pit  and  on  the  stage  below  him,  and  in 
his  little  soul  a  great,  thrilling  resolve — to  do  it,  too! 

Yes,  there  is  Wagner,  now,  upon  the  instruments  of 
the  orchestra  before  him  in  Carnegie  Hall  to-night,  the 
genius  of  the  man  sounding  even  plainer  to  the  world 
because  the  years  are  rolling  thick  upon  his  grave. 
Deathless  music!  That  same  music  he  listened  to  in 
Paris  so  many  years  ago — listened  and  thrilled  and  re- 
solved !  The  labour  of  the  man !  The  soul  of  greatness 
in  an  attic!  Before  his  eyes  and  in  his  ears  the  music  of 
eternity!  The  character  of  him,  the  endless  patience, 
the  wonder  of  the  vision,  world  without  end !  The  imper- 
ishablefaithbeforeaworldof  pharisees.  Before  Heaven, 
a  man! 

"Tristan  und  Isolde,"  has  faded  from  the  orchestral 
harp  before  our  Sammy,  now,  however,  and  in  the 
mounting  silence  a  new  melody  has  started.  A 
strange,  broken  waltz,  that  lifts  him  on  with  ever- 
changing  variations;  melting,  shifting  chords  that 
shimmer  into  great  crashes  of  sheer  music;  blending, 
softening,  then,  into  a  mincing  theme  with  flashes  of 
incandescent  beauty  lighting  up  the  progressing  mel- 
ody, like  showering  golden  stars  upon  a  dark,  ultra- 
marine stream;  breaking  into  the  exquisite  madness 
of  the  waltz  strain,  now,  more  and  more,  until  it  bursts 
upon  the  orchestra  at  last  in  matchless,  passionate 
abandon,  overwhelming  the  harmonic  typhoon  of  its 
accompaniment  with  the  great,  swelling  sweetness  of  its 
cadenced  melody!  Only  the  crash  of  silence  tells  our 
Sammy  that  the  poem  is  over.  "Don  Juan,"  by  Strauss, 
he  sees ! 

Into  the  soul  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  inch  by  inch,  a 
deathless  thrill  is  creeping,  as  he  sits  entranced,  his  face 
tight  clutched  between  his  palms,  the  waves  of  melody 
trembling  in  his  brain;  a  thrill,  I  think,  that  is  to  be  his 
vision.  He  is  seeing  the  genius  of  the  ages,  the  inspira- 


214  THE  BALANCE 

tion  of  the  centuries,  piling  up  its  slow  laborious  bulk,  age 
by  age;  emerging  from  the  shadowy  path  of  fabled 
muses,  the  aisles  of  distant  endeavour  where  trod  the 
sons  of  God;  calling  forth,  each  decade,  to  the  living 
flame  in  man;  striking  fire  from  ancient  tinder,  now 
showers  of  half-remembered  chansons  which  dim  min- 
strels sang,  now  tiny  tongues  of  flame  blazing  in  monk- 
scriven  records,  in  inspired  crusades,  in  the  Assisan — 
ever  gaining  fuel  from  what  it  feeds  on;  lighting  now 
into  a  blaze  that  casts  its  light  and  shadow  far  over  the 
world  of  man — over  art  in  painting,  in  literature,  in 
music,  in  sculpture,  in  architecture,  in  religion;  its 
flames  rising  high  toward  the  Heavens  through  the 
Renaissance,  touching  with  life  the  figures  of  Luther, 
Stradavari,  Palestrina — the  brilliant  figures  of  Dante 
and  Giotto  still  flaming  upon  the  horizon — Da  Vinci, 
Diirer,  Bach,  Scarlatti — by  dozens,  by  scores,  by 
hundreds,  by  thousands  they  march,  until  names  are 
useless,  unending,  all  marching  down  Tennyson's  ring- 
ing grooves  of  change,  the  mighty  bulk  of  human  genius 
looming  higher  and  higher,  adding  the  talent,  the  spirit 
of  each  generation,  as  the  inspiration  of  the  past  strikes 
fire  on  the  talent  of  the  present,  until  the  flame  that  lies 
latent  in  the  breasts  of  the  S.  Sydney  Tappans  of  to- 
day leaps  into  life,  strains  madly  to  reach  its  Heaven, 
hot,  lambent,  wonderful,  transfusing  the  life  of  the  man 
it  inhabits,  and  joins  finally  the  great  sweep  of  the  re- 
vealing fire  of  the  ages  as  the  Spirit  that  is  Man  goes 
crashing  down  the  vista  of  the  future! 

The  memories  are  gone  now  from  S.  Sydney  Tappan, 
and  as  he  rises  blindly,  and  bursts  out  upon  the  street, 
his  soul  is  flashing  fire  within  him.  Great  music,  great 
books,  great  deeds,  great  art,  these  are  the  deathless 
things  of  man,  and  their  creators  the  roll  of  honour  in  a 
thousand  creeds!  His  gift  is  taking  flame  from  the 
blaze  that  once  was  Wagner,  once  was  Ibsen,  once  was 
Francis,  once  was  Paul,  yes,  once  was  Christ — and  be- 
fore Him,  Buddha!  The  Spirit  of  God  in  Man! 

I  would  like  to  give  all  the  credit  to  Carrie,  as  S. 


THE  BALANCE  215 

Sydney  Tappan's  vision  floods  his  soul,  and  the  resolve 
of  Paris,  of  Vienna,  so  many  years  ago,  rekindles  into 
the  flame  which  is  to  light  the  lifetime  of  his  endeavour; 
but  there  is  other  credit  for  her.  Vision  without  pur- 
pose cannot  move  the  mountain.  Soon  we  can  grant 
Carrie  all  his  purpose.  To-night,  as  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
strides  on,  unconscious  of  his  surroundings,  intent  only 
upon  this  blinding  light  within  his  soul,  I  think  the 
credit  belongs  to  God.  He  has  touched  the  prostrate 
talent  of  our  Sammy  with  the  vision  of  the  ages. 

Is  the  day  for  miracles  quite  over? 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  is  entering  the  path  that  Wagner 
trod,  to-night.  He  has  fallen  in  love  with  the  idea  of 
his  lifetime;  fallen  in  love,  this  time,  forever.  He,  too, 
will  give  the  world  to  prove  his  inspiration. 


CHAPTER  XV 
IN  WHICH  SAMMY  GETS  His  IDEA  AT  LAST 

THERE  are  few  things  more  irritating  than  to  resolve 
to  write  something  great,  and  then  find  an  utter  lack  of 
subject.  It  has  only  a  few  parallels.  Carrie  could  have 
presented  one  without  hesitation.  The  young  ladies 
who  resolve  nobly  to  help  the  poor,  and  start  out  to  do 
it!  In  that  case,  however,  the  inspiration  is  usually  a 
terrible  thing  for  the  poor,  also. 

To  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  however,  in  the  weeks  follow- 
ing his  resolve — a  resolve  crystallized  into  a  determina- 
tion astonishing  to  one  familiar  with  his  character — 
there  could  not  have  been  given  anything  approaching 
the  exasperation  of  this  dearth  of  genius.  What,  in- 
deed, more  provoking  than  to  conclude  to  do  some- 
thing fine,  and  then  sit  helplessly  before  a  stony  type- 
writer, one's  brain  and  inventive  genius  quite  cold  and 
unresponsive!  It  is  well  known  that  the  best  way 
never  to  write  a  play  is  to  start  with  the  desire  to  write 
one,  and  with  nothing  else.  Perhaps  this  is  why  our 
Sammy  spent  so  many  discouraging  weeks  scowling 
savagely  at  his  usually  faithful  typewriter,  without  a 
single  result  worth  mentioning. 

Always,  too,  just  around  the  corner  from  his  dra- 
matic vision  there  lay  lurking  the  very  idea  which 
made  him  famous,  finally.  Perhaps  it  was  obscured 
by  the  swarm  of  tiny  devils  of  sensuousness  which 
crowded  around  him  in  those  days,  leaping  with  little 
malignant  grins  upon  the  silent  keys,  daring  him  to 
strike  them.  That  he  never  did  is  the  best  proof  to 
me  of  the  strength  of  his  resolve.  There  are  to  be  no 
more  Ladies  in  Lion  Skins  from  the  mind  of  S.  Sydney 

216 


THE  BALANCE  217 

Tappan.  It  was  the  height  of  irony,  the  variety  of 
plots  of  that  kind  which  presented  themselves  to  him 
in  those  gloomy  weeks.  But  beneath  them  all  he  could 
see  the  malevolent  grins  of  the  little  devils,  and  he 
put  them  from  him  manfully.  He  will  write  the  best 
that  is  in  him  from  now  on,  though  he  may  starve  in  the 
attempt. 

He  did  not  falter  even  upon  the  memorable  day  when 
the  great  Kane  sent  for  him,  to  provide  one  of  his  wan- 
ing stars  with  a  new  piece  of  delicately  done  suggestion. 
It  was  the  fashion  for  some  time  in  New  York,  that 
style  of  drama,  and  no  one  more  responsive  to  fashion 
than  our  American  producers.  One  rhinoceros  drama, 
if  successful,  would  find,  I  verily  believe,  at  least  nine- 
teen comrades  jogging  along  behind — and  that,  before 
the  season  was  half  over.  "The  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin" 
impelled  one  of  these  small  waves,  and  our  Sammy's 
great  name  seemed  promising. 

The  great  Kane's  face  expressed  more  than  incre- 
dulity when  he  heard  our  Sammy's  answer  to  his  pro- 
posal. 

"But  my  dear  man,"  he  is  quoted  as  saying.  "It  is 
what  the  public  wants!" 

To  which  our  Sammy  replied  that  for  him,  at  least, 
the  public  could  be  damned! 

"The  public  just  follow  after,"  he  said,  staring  at 
the  great  Kane's  little  nose.  "It  is  for  us  to  pull  the 
sodden  mass  along  a  little  farther  during  our  lives!" 

If  he  had  told  him  his  whole  idea  I  think  the  great 
Kane  would  have  rung  for  an  attendant.  He  did  go  so 
far  as  to  ask  him  what  kind  of  a  play  he  contemplated 
writing — to  which  our  Sammy  had  no  reply.  He  had 
no  means  of  knowing  as  yet!  He  was  mentally  noting 
that  when  he  did  write  it  this  Kane  should  have  the 
last  chance  at  it.  His  conception  of  his  own  ability 
was  stronger  than  ever  as  he  took  his  departure.  But 
he  saw  a  little  plainer  that  his  struggle  would  but  have 
begun  once  this  new  play  of  his  was  finished.  I  think 
he  saw  it  plainer  and  plainer  as  the  days  followed  one 


218  THE  BALANCE 

another,  and  the  avenues  down  which  others  sought 
fame  gradually  closed  for  him.  But  he  did  not  ever 
even  entertain  the  thought  of  giving  up,  now  he  had 
started.  His  vision  always  held  him  to  his  course. 

It  was  startling  how  quickly  his  name  and  his  face 
disappeared  from  Broadway.  I  think  he  was  hardly 
mentioned  three  months  after  he  resigned  from  the 
Lambs'  Club.  It  was  partly,  of  course,  because 
Sylvia  was  in  Boston.  The  memories  of  cities,  those 
of  republics,  are  wofully  short,  however,  and  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  had  vanished  completely  before  even  half 
that  dull  season  was  over.  It  is  strange  to  think  that 
he  was  in  his  room  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  all 
the  while.  Even  had  Sylvia  been  in  town,  I  doubt 
if  his  name  would  have  stayed  in  the  swim.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  just  penalty  he  paid  for  the  worthlessness  of 
his  work.  Money  was  all  that  Sylvia's  play  ever 
meant;  and  money  is  easily  spent.  I  venture  to  say  that 
in  all  New  York  there  was  not  a  soul  to  remark  on  the 
passing  of  Sammy. 

There  were  times,  of  course,  when  he  nearly  de- 
spaired; when  he  sat  gazing  at  his  dark  tenement  land- 
scape in  a  despondency  that  Ricorton  thought  would 
never  lift.  For  the  literary  mind  there  can  be  no  an- 
guish approaching  that  which  lack  of  ideas  induces 
when  ideas  are  at  a  premium.  It  was  not  aided  by  the 
persistent  endeavours  of  Ricorton  to  play  the  cornet 
those  evenings,  either.  It  was  the  only  instrument  in 
the  orchestra  with  which  he  was  not  upon  speaking 
terms,  and  he  put  in  the  time  making  its  intimate 
acquaintance.  Evenings,  now,  when  S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan  takes  down  the  volume  in  which  "Doctor  Paulding" 
heads  the  list,  I  think  there  are  echoes  of  cornet  tones, 
a  trifle  off  the  key,  in  some  parts  of  the  dialogue.  I  am 
not  sure,  either,  but  what  he  would  give  up  "Dr.  Pauld- 
ing" in  its  entirety  to  hear  those  notes  once  more. 

When  he  finally  did  get  his  great  idea,  the  idea  which 
runs  through  all  his  later  work,  Ricorton  could  have 
rehearsed  a  Cubist  orchestra  in  their  second-floor  back 


THE  BALANCE  219 

room  and  our  Sammy  would  never  have  heard  it. 
There  were  days  then  when  he  never  looked  up  from  the 
manuscript  which  unrolled  itself  before  his  troubled 
eyes;  when  Ricorton  played  the  cornet  in  untroubled 
peace,  and  Ruby  altered  her  clothes  to  meet  the  chang- 
ing fashion  while  Bantry  smoked  in  gloomy  silence. 
An  odd  quartette,  these  four.  The  rented  rooms  of 
New  York  are  filled  with  their  replicas,  altered  in 
various  ways,  perhaps,  to  suit  the  whims  of  the  Gods 
of  Circumstance,  in  all  else  the  same. 

To  Ricorton  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  before 
there  would  be  more  shows  to  drill  and  conduct,  and 
meanwhile  he  could  write  a  few  good  songs  and  master 
the  cornet.  To  Ruby  and  Bantry  it  was  but  the 
common  experience  of  life  incidental  to  the  stage.  I 
hardly  believe  any  of  them  expected  the  fight  for  life 
which  the  depression  entailed,  that  year,  upon  the  poor 
of  New  York.  When  it  had  been  three  months  with 
them,  and  all  hope  of  employment  had  vanished  until 
times  were  better,  they  had  their  first,  dim  glimpse  of 
what  the  future  might  hold  for  them. 

The  brutal  thing  about  an  industrial  depression  is 
that  it  closes  all  industries  at  once.  The  desperate 
worker  has  no  place  to  turn  for  relief,  and  so  must  starve 
with  folded  hands.  It  was  some  two  months  before 
this  fact  became  embedded  in  Ricorton's  mind,  and  he 
ceased  trying  for  waiter's  jobs,  for  jobs  in  hotel  orches- 
tras, and  at  the  piano  in  picture  shows;  gave  up  in 
despair  and  settled  himself  to  his  cornet  in  grim  pa- 
tience, while  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  money  gradually 
melted  beneath  the  onslaught  of  their  necessities.  In 
all  New  York  there  was  no  one  to  buy  Ricorton's  genius 
for  the  proverbial  shilling.  That  it  was  S.  Sydney 
Tappan's  dwindling  capital  which  held  all  their  heads 
above  the  waves  of  starvation  but  served  to  intensify 
the  musician's  feeling  of  the  ignominy  of  it  all.  The 
hurt  of  it  bit  to  the  quick  of  Ricorton's  soul.  A  man, 
and  helpless!  There  were  even  times  when  he  put 
away  those  scores  and  manuscripts,  and  said  good-bye 


220  THE  BALANCE 

\ 

to  them  forever.  His  father  had  been  right.  Art  is 
long,  and  life  is  short,  and  needs  money  to  support 
it. 

I  do  not  think  I  blame  Ruby  over  much,  now,  for 
those  evenings  she  spent  with  Bantry  at  the  restaurant 
on  Tenth  Street.  There  are  times  in  people's  lives 
when  they  will  sell  their  souls  for  the  cozy  lights  and 
cheap  wine  of  Ricotti's.  And  there  seemed  to  be  a 
fatal  sameness  about  Ricorton's  menus,  induced  per- 
haps by  lack  of  funds.  Spaghetti  is  cheapest,  and  will 
nourish,  too.  It  lacks  variety,  however,  upon  too  much 
repetition. 

It  is  to  our  Sammy's  everlasting  honour  that,  through 
it  all,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  his  money  would  last 
longer  if  he  had  only  himself  to  support.  He  would 
have  thought  as  soon  of  casting  these  friends  of  his 
adrift  in  mid-ocean  as  on  the  streets  of  New  York.  I 
do  not  wonder  that  gradually  there  dawned  in  Ruby's 
eyes  an  appreciation  of  the  strange  code  of  honour  of 
the  man  who  sat  writing  "Doctor  Paulding,"  with  starva- 
tion three  months  ahead,  and  never  stopped  even  to 
question  the  motives  of  his  friends.  It  is,  too,  the 
one  dark,  ineffaceable  blot  upon  the  soul  of  Ruby  that 
she  recognized,  and  took  advantage  of  her  discovery. 
There  were  extenuating  circumstances,  but  they  could 
never  excuse  the  deed. 

Sammy  never  knew  from  what  specific  thing  he 
derived  his  great  idea.  It  seemed  to  come  full  born, 
suddenly,  from  out  the  kaleidoscopic  memory  of  those 
nights  and  days  spent  wandering  aimlessly  about  the 
island  of  despair:  memories  of  icy  waterfronts,  of  warm, 
evil-smelling  saloons,  of  snow-swept  parks  of  iron  and 
stone,  of  rags  and  stumbling  horses,  all  jumbled  up  with 
half-remembered  glimpses  of  the  world  of  Forty-second 
Street  which  he  knew  so  well  and  avoided  as  much  as 
possible.  He  always  remembered  just  when  it  came. 
It  was  as  he  sat  staring  at  Ric  in  the  West  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  room,  noting  the  look  of  hopelessness  in 
the  musician's  blue  eyes,  realizing  the  fine  texture  of  the 


THE  BALANCE  221 

man's  soul  that  felt  more  keenly  every  day  the  sordid- 
ness  of  his  defeat. 

Poverty !  A  world  of  wolves  at  one  another's  throats, 
professing,  too,  the  brotherhood  of  man;  all  life  a  war, 
all  effort  turned,  not  to  magnificent  endeavour,  but 
toward  grinding  out  a  profit  from  the  work  of  some  one 
else!  The  beastly  survival  of  the  fittest,  apologized 
for  by  the  excuse  of  man's  frailty  of  soul:  necessity 
the  driving  power,  the  greed  of  the  comparative  few 
and  not  the  natural  instincts  of  the  many  the  main- 
spring; greed,  without  any  possible  substitute  because 
of  the  inherent  evil  of  man's  so-called  nature! 

As  in  a  flash,  he  saw  the  reality  which  men  see  as  in  a 
mirror — all  things  reversed  but  still  holding  their  rela- 
tion; the  reality  of  this  Frankenstein  of  Man,  man  al- 
lowed, man  created  by  the  evil  passion  of  the  avaricious 
of  ages  past,  spreading  out  and  down  from  the  feudal 
ages  of  Europe  to  gather  in  gradually  the  reins  of 
dominion  over  all  mankind,  a  great  Monster  of  En- 
vironment now,  crushing  with  its  mighty  bulk  the  light 
of  all  men's  souls,  creating  with  its  own  weight  the  evil 
at  which  it  points  for  the  justification  of  its  continued 
existence,  casting  the  blight  of  its  materialism  upon  the 
flowering  of  man  in  the  centuries  since  chivalry,  the 
greed  of  ages  past  revivified  by  each  generation's  glut- 
tons, crushing  under  foot  from  childhood  the  tiny  light 
of  each  man's  soul  except  where  some  Tolstoi  flames 
despite  it,  while  the  religion  that  was  Christ's  cries  out 
reprovingly  against  the  despairing  deeds  of  its  wracked 
victims,  and  shuts  its  eyes  with  the  strength  of  Habit 
against  the  Monster  itself.  Man  moulded  now  by  the 
Monster  he  himself  allowed  to  fatten  when  the  greed 
of  capitalism  first  emerged  from  the  Middle  Ages  of  the 
race;  not  a  new  Monster  fed  afresh  each  generation  by 
the  evil  hand  of  Man's  ineradicable  nature,  and  so 
destined  to  be  always  with  us! 

Before  Heaven,  no — not  that!  No  great  deed  of  the 
world  done  for  greed!  No  Wagners  starving  in  their 
attics  for  greed!  No  fine  thing  of  Man  done  except 


222  THE  BALANCE 

for  the  doing — the  race  run  for  the  running!  All  else 
as  dust. 

You  will  remember  in  the  play  of  "Doctor  Paulding" 
that  the  doctor  proves  his  point  of  the  nature  of  man's 
soul  by  his  belief  in  three  people,  a  belief  so  strong  that 
their  evil  intentions — intentions  induced  in  great  part 
by  their  necessity — cannot  be  carried  out  in  the  face 
of  his  love  for  them.  It  was  but  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
first  assault  upon  that  idea  that  there  is  a  new  monster 
with  each  generation.  In  "Doctor  Paulding"  the  age-old 
monster  took  Sammy's  characters  in  hand  and  the  love 
of  the  doctor  saved  them. 

Afterward,  Sammy  could  never  understand  how  he 
searched  so  long  for  his  idea  when  it  lay  about  him  all 
the  while  in  that  poorly  furnished  room.  It  was  his 
genius,  of  course,  that  held  the  audience  breathless  in 
the  working  out  of  the  idea.  People  after  seeing  "Doctor 
Paulding"  were  often  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  strength 
of  the  interest.  It  was  because,  beneath  the  texture 
of  the  play,  there  beat  the  eternal  truth.  To  this  day, 
however,  I  fear  there  are  some  managers  who  never 
understood  it. 

I  have  always  wondered,  too,  if  some  time  during 
those  months  in  which  he  wrote  "Doctor  Paulding,"  a 
certain  old-fashioned  drawing-room  in  Melchester, 
with  an  eager-faced  girl  sitting  before  him,  never  came 
into  his  mind;  or  if  his  own  remark  of  years  ago  "that 
some  one  should  write  a  play  about  it!"  did  not  ever 
occur  to  him.  The  roots  of  our  ideas  and  actions 
extend  down  and  back  so  far  in  the  soil  of  our  subcon- 
cious  minds  that  it  is  difficult  sometimes  to  trace  the 
exact  seed  from  which  some  of  our  inspirations  spring. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  flowering  of  his  soul  under  the 
sunshine  of  the  divine  inspiration  was  only  the  final 
development  of  that  seed  planted  in  his  mind  so  long 
ago  by  Carrie;  planted,  and  unconsciously  nurtured  by 
her  during  those  years  afterward.  I  am  certain,  at 
least,  that  our  Sammy  would  not  be  sitting  just  now, 
writing  "Doctor  Paulding"  in  his  cheap  room,  had  it  not 


THE  BALANCE  223 

been  for  Carrie.  He  might  have  arrived  at  the  same 
goal  by  other  and  devious  routes  long  after,  but  we  can 
give  Carrie  all  the  credit,  this  time,  for  the  great  idea 
which  stirs  him  so.  The  miracle  of  his  awakening  has 
been  succeeded  by  this  task,  ready  made  apparently 
for  him  to  grapple  with.  He  is  beginning  his  attack 
upon  the  nation's  monster,  poverty!  And  beginning 
it  at  the  beginning:  the  moral  anarchy  of  the  human 
minds  that  cause  it. 

A  rather  large  contract !  I  can  hear  you  saying,  with 
a  smile.  Well,  remember  that  the  larger  the  concep- 
tion, the  greater  always  was  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
enthusiasm.  For  the  time  being  he  has  conceived  of 
himself  as  but  one  step  down  that  Vista  of  the  Future; 
and  behind  him  he  can  still  see  the  glory  of  all  the  others, 
as  they  hold  high  their  torches  down  the  many  different 
aisles.  At  least  he  will  blaze  the  way  another  foot! 

It  was  one  evening  some  two  months  after  his  inspira- 
tion that  our  Sammy  was  tempted  again,  in  his  odd 
way,  by  that  old  conception  he  had  held  of  success.  A 
note  from  Dorothy,  asking  him  to  take  her  for  dinner  at 
the  Ritz  and  to  the  theatre  afterward,  was  the  guise  in 
which  the  temptation  came. 

Poor  Dorothy!  Money  was  always  the  last  thing  in 
the  world  about  which  she  ever  took  thought.  Sammy 
is  one  of  her  oldest  friends,  a  friend  of  Hawthorne  Street, 
and  can  surely  spare  the  time  to  spend  an  evening  with 
her — this  has  been  the  way  she  has  put  it  to  herself 
as  she  writes  the  note.  He  is  rather  worth  keeping 
track  of,  too,  nowadays,  since  his  great  triumph  in 
Melchester.  He  will  make  an  interesting  addition  to 
society  whenever  he  comes  to  town ;  and,  for  some  reason, 
he  is  no  longer  upon  Carrie's  string.  Perhaps  because 
Carrie  has  turned  out  to  be  so  odd.  He  has  made  a 
tremendous  amount  of  money,  too,  by  this  time,  most 
likely.  People  who  write  plays  which  get  on  always  do. 

She  has  not  followed  the  season  in  New  York  this 
year,  and  so  does  not  know  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 


224  THE  BALANCE 

brief,  meteoric  career  and  sudden  vanishment.  To  Mel- 
chester  he  will  always  be  a  tremendous  success,  from 
now  henceforth. 

The  weaknesses  of  the  man!  Our  Sammy  has  his 
vision  now,  and  yet  there  still  hangs  about  him  the 
ghost  of  that  old  mania  of  success.  Despite  our  visions, 
environment  can  always  offer  us  a  battle  still.  He  does 
not  care  so  far  as  New  York  is  concerned,  but  he  cannot 
bear  that  Melchester  shall  ever  know  of  the  change  in 
his  circumstances.  It  was  partly  pure  pride,  too,  of 
course;  that  same  pride  which  did  our  Sammy  for 
character  so  long,  and  which  still  stands  about  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  serve  again.  I  do  not  know  which  of  the 
two  was  the  impelling  motive  that  urged  him  on  to 
entertain  Dorothy.  I  can  add  no  commentary,  how- 
ever, which  would  illuminate  more  plainly  the  odd  mix- 
ture of  this  S.  Sydney  Tappan  than  the  mere  fact  that 
he  drew  out  twenty-five  of  his  few  remaining  dollars 
to  take  her  to  the  Ritz!  Thank  Heaven,  dress  clothes 
for  men  stay  in  style  for  comparatively  long  periods. 

His  spirits  rose,  too,  oddly  enough,  as  he  trod  Fifth 
Avenue  once  more,  on  his  way  to  the  hotel.  He  forgot 
his  circumstances  completely  in  those  few  minutes 
during  which  he  walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  and  looked  at 
the  buildings  with  a  new  interest.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  wide  application  of  his  new  play,  now  well  under 
way.  In  fact,  he  was  just  refusing  the  great  Kane  the 
opportunity  of  producing  it  as  he  walked  into  the  lobby! 

While  he  waits  in  the  lobby,  however,  his  old  per- 
plexities come  back  to  plague  him.  He  has  not 
written  to  Carrie  yet!  And  it  is  nearly  three  months 
since  he  received  her  note  thanking  him  for  the  Martha 
Grossman  check.  As  he  waits  for  Dorothy  to  come 
downstairs  he  realizes  afresh  that  he  does  not  know 
even  yet  what  to  say  in  answer  to  that  letter  of  con- 
gratulation; and  this  dinner  will  be  talked  of  in  Mel- 
chester, will  come  to  Carrie's  ears  in  time,  perhaps 
before  he  has  screwed  up  courage  to  write.  To  all 
intents  and  purposes  he  must  say  to-night  what  he 


THE  BALANCE  225 

will  say  later  about  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  and  its 
withdrawal — unless  the  subject  can  be  avoided.  It 
will  have  to  be  the  truth,  of  course,  he  decides  a  mo- 
ment later.  To  realize  upon  the  instant  the  unfair- 
ness of  the  thing  to  him!  The  old  truth  is  no  longer 
the  truth  about  him.  The  Sammy  who  sits  in  the 
Ritz  Carlton  to-night  could  never  have  written  any 
"Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin." 

What  will  Sylvia  say,  he  wonders?  In  a  way  he 
dreads  seeing  Sylvia  again — she  will  not  understand 
his  new  point  of  view,  he  fears.  He  has  not  said  any- 
thing to  her  in  his  letters  beyond  the  fact,  that  he  is 
writing  a  new  play.  She  is  coming  to  New  York  to- 
night, too,  for  a  week-end  stay,  and  he  will  be  seeing 
her  soon. 

And  he  rises  to  greet  Dorothy  and  they  go  in  to  din- 
ner. 

To  Dorothy  it  is  quite  an  exciting  occasion.  She 
does  not  take  dinner  every  night  at  the  Ritz  with  suc- 
cessful playwrights.  No  doubt  the  diners  are  all 
wondering  if  she  is  his  fiancee! 

"Do  tell  me,"  she  says  vivaciously,  as  some  of  our 
Sammy's  precious  twenty-five  dollars  disappear  with 
the  first  course.  "Do  tell  me  about  the  play!'-* 

"The  play?"  our  Sammy  repeats,  a  little  blankly. 
It  does  not  seem  reasonable  that  she  can  mean  "Doctor 
Paulding,"  so  soon! 

"Yes,"  she  goes  on,  "your  Lion  Lady " 

"You  mean  the  'Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin/"  says  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  hastily.  He  can  stand  anything 
except  wrong  titles  on  his  plays! 

"So  I  do,"  says  Dorothy,  "of  course!" 

"Withdrawn,"  says  Sammy  laconically. 

She  stares  at  him  blankly. 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  she  cries.  "But  why?  I 
thought  it  was  such  a  success!" 

"It  was,"  says  Sammy  drily.  Good  heavens,  is 
this  to  be  his  punishment,  this  bringing  up  of  that 
miserable  play  every  time  he  meets  people  he  has  not 


226  THE  BALANCE 

seen  for  some  time?  To  certain  old  ladies  in  Mel- 
chester,  he  knows,  he  is  still  a  plumber,  probably  to 
remain  one  until  plumbing  goes  out  of  style.  He  had 
not  thought  the  "  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  would  dog  his 
footsteps  in  the  same  manner. 

"The  depression,"  he  explains,  although  he  loathes 
to.  He  always  hated  to  explain  anything,  and  this  is 
particularly  unpleasant,  coming  so  soon  after  his  hope 
that  the  subject  might  not  be  touched  on. 

Dorothy  attempts  to  look  knowing.  Depression? 
Where  has  she  heard  of  this  before?  But  she  is  saved 
the  bother  of  thinking  by  a  diversion. 

Sammy  has  risen  from  his  chair  to  greet  a  woman, 
girl  she  seems  almost,  with  fine  bronze  hair  and  ivory 
complexion,  who  is  running  with  little  steps  across  the 
dining-room  to  seize  him  by  both  hands  and  hug  him. 

"Sylvia!"  he  says,  in  his  voice  the  ring  of  unmistak- 
able pleasure.  It  is  partly  because  he  is  really  glad  to 
see  her,  partly  because  he  will  not  have  to  explain 
now  just  why  he  has  no  new  play  upon  Broadway, 
nor  that  he  is  writing  a  new  one  of  a  different  hue, 
meant  to  overshadow  all  the  others.  Dorothy  will  be 
side  tracked. 

"Tappy,"  Sylvia  cries  out.  "I'm  just  in  from 
Boston — I've  finished  there — I  couldn't  get  you  on 
the  telephone  just  now!" 

With  a  little  grin,  S.  Sydney  Tappan  introduces 
Dorothy. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  you,"  he  says  to  Sylvia, 
who  has  sat  down  now,  leaving  her  two  partners  quite 
nonplussed  at  the  table  over  by  the  windows. 

"Yes,"  says  Dorothy,  "and  the  'Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin!" 

This  is  the  most  thrilling  thing  that  has  ever  happened 
to  her.  She  is  actually  dining  in  the  Ritz  with  a 
playwright  and  Sylvia  Tremaine.  Melchester  can 
offer  nothing  like  this! 

"Poor  Tappy,"  says  Sylvia,  patting  him  upon  the 
arm.  "Wasn't  it  too  mean?"  she  turns  to  Dorothy. 


THE  BALANCE  227 

"And  after  I  got  him  to  write  it,  too!  You  don't 

know  how  much  I've  missed  you,  Sydney How 

are  all  your  troubles?  Oh!  And  the  new  play! 
You  must  bring  it  to-morrow!" 

Sammy  shakes  his  head. 

"No,"  he  says  in  an  odd  tone. 

Dorothy  gasps  a  little.  Why,  he  treats  her  quite 
rudely,  nonchalantly — and  she  is  so  evidently  in  love 
with  him! 

"You  will!"  says  Sylvia  imperiously.  She  changes 
to  her  wheedling  tone  once  more:  "Please  don't  be 
a  pig,  Tappy."  She  turns  again  to  Dorothy.  "He^s 
very  piggy  at  times." 

"No,"  reiterates  Sammy,  defending  himself.  "It 
isn't  done." 

"Of  course  it  isn't — not  in  nice  society !"  Sylvia  says 
in  a  flash. 

Sammy  stares  at  her  soberly. 

"You've  degenerated,  Sylly,"  he  says.  "You  knew 
I  meant  the  play.  I  shall  not  read  from  unfinished 
masterpieces!' 

"You  will,"  she  says.     "You've  got  to  come.'* 

She  considers  him  a  moment. 

"  I'm  going  to  whisper  to  him,  now,  and  ruin  him,'*  she 
says  to  Dorothy.  "They're  victims  when  I  whisper.'7 

"I  don't  hear  you,"  says  Sammy.  "Besides,  I  shall 
call  the  head  waiter.  I  won't  be  persecuted  in  a  public 
place." 

But  Sylvia  leans  over  and  whispers  in  his  ear. 

"Come  to-night,"  she  whispers.  "I'll  be  back,  too, 
at  twelve-thirty." 

And  with  a  little  nod  to  Dorothy  she  hurries  away 
to  her  two  waiting  partners  before  our  Sammy  can 
make  his  negative  take  effect. 

"She  is  darling,"  cries  Dorothy.     "Isn't  she?" 

"She's  the  devil,"  replies  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  rue- 
fully. He  will  have  to  go,  he  knows.  He  would  rather 
put  it  off,  too.  She  will  require  a  great  deal  of  ex- 
plaining from  him  before  she  lets  him  off.  Still,  she 


228  THE  BALANCE 

is  a  brick  after  all.  She  is  the  same  as  if  he  had  fifty 
plays  upon  Broadway  at  the  moment.  There  is  a 
little  catch  in  his  throat  as  he  looks  after  her.  There 
is  something  fine  about  Sylvia  Tremaine,  after  all. 
In  his  heart  he  knows  that  she  has  made  just  a  tiny 
extra  fuss  about  him  because  just  at  the  moment  he 
is  not  a  fine  success!  It  is  her  way  of  comforting  him, 
though  all  the  Ritz  is  looking  on ! 

Dorothy  brings  him  back  with  a  little  jolt. 

"Do  tell  me,  Sammy — is  she  in  love  with  you?" 

Sammy  flushes  a  little. 

"Ridiculous,"  he  says  rudely.  Inside  he  is  con- 
scious that  she  does  like  him  perhaps  a  trifle  more  than 
friendship  calls  for.  "Tell  me,  what  is  the  news  from 
Melchester ?  Is  it  the  same?" 

Dorothy  denies  indignantly  the  implication  that 
nothing  much  ever  occurs  in  the  old  city  of  their  youth. 

"All  sorts  of  changes,"  she  says.  "Deaths,  and 
marriages,  and  engagements!" 

"Any  one  I  know?"  he  asks. 

"Old  Mr.  Dabney,"  she  says  tentatively. 

"Old  Mr.  Dabney!"  he  exclaims.  There  is  a  little 
pain  in  his  heart.  He  has  never  written  the  old  man 
yet!  And  now  it  is  too  late.  Old  Mr.  Dabney — why 
the  old  gentleman  knew  his  grandfather,  his  mother — 
the  law  office  overlooking  the  corners  comes  before 
his  eyes  for  a  brief  second. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  adds  quietly.  Dorothy 
has  been  naming  others  meanwhile  but  he  has  not 
heard  her.  He  has  been  standing  in  old-fashioned 
Melchester,  a  little  boy  once  more,  waiting  by  the 
horse-car  for  old  Mr.  Dabney  to  give  him  a  quarter 
to  celebrate  his  seventh  birthday.  He  has  never 
forgotten  that  thrill.  Perhaps  the  deed  is  being  read 
aloud  in  Heaven,  at  that  moment,  and  it  has  silenced 
Sammy.  Old  Mr.  Dabney,  with  his  old-fashioned 
ideas!  Was  he  ever  young?  Well,  he  has  vanished 
now,  along  with  the  horse-cars — forever. 

Dorothy    is    watching    S.    Sydney    Tappan    rather 


THE  BALANCE  229 

closely,  however.  She  has  always  wondered  just  what 
this  boy — good  heavens,  he  is  a  man,  now! — what  his 
feelings  toward  Carrie  are.  She  has  heard  rumours 
of  a  certain  young  doctor  in  the  Settlement.  Is  it  all 
off  between  her  and  Sam  Tappan,  or  was  there  never 
anything  except  old  friendship  between  them?  He  is 
a  good  catch,  now,  S.  Sydney  Tappan;  not  so  good, 
perhaps,  as  Asa  Dobbs,  but  there  is  a  younger  genera- 
tion coming  along  in  Melchester  these  days  that  threat- 
ens her  hold  on  him.  It  frightens  her  a  little  at  times, 
this  coming  generation  of  young  girls.  They  are 
dangerous,  as  she  herself  approaches  the  thirty  mark. 
She  has  always  liked  Sammy,  too.  He  can  be  some- 
body in  Melchester  society  with  the  proper  wife. 

"They  say  Carrie  is  engaged,"  she  says  keenly,  "as 
perhaps  you  know — though  it  isn't  announced,  so 
congrats  aren't  in  order."  She  watches  for  the  effect. 
"You  were  sweet  on  her  once,  weren't  you,  Sam?" 

"In  my  youth,"  answers  Sammy  easily.  "Who  is 
the  man?" 

His  self-control  astonishes  him.  Of  course  he  has 
thought  of  this  before — has  imagined  things  from  her 
letters;  but  the  reality,  somehow,  seems  to  have 
plunged  a  cold,  cruel  knife  into  his  heart,  killing  all 
feeling  at  first.  Slowly,  the  knife  withdraws.  Carrie! 
Carrie  belonging  to  some  one  else!  A  tiny  cloud  of 
red  throws  itself  athwart  his  brain,  and  on  it  his  mem- 
ory paints  the  golf  course  beside  the  river,  the  lights 
of  the  club,  and  in  the  shadows  a  starry-eyed  young 
nymph  of  love,  her  trembling  arms  and  shy  smile 
speaking  of  dawning  passion.  It  is  with  a  great  effort 
that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  retains  his  calm  seat  in  the 
Ritz  dining-room  beside  the  glowing  candlebulbs.  Be- 
fore Heaven,  there  is  but  one  Carrie! 

"One  of  those  doctors  in  the  Settlements,  they  say," 
says  Dorothy  quite  frankly.  She  has  not  noticed 
the  slightest  thing  that  would  betoken  any  emotion 
in  the  man  before  her.  It  must  be  Sylvia  Tremaine 
with  whom  she  must  fight  for  Sammy. 


230  THE  BALANCE 

Why,  he  has  not  even  asked  for  the  doctor's  name, 
she  thinks,  a  little  relievedly,  in  the  theatre  afterward; 
though  she  has  but  told  the  gossip  about  Carrie,  and 
could  give  the  man's  name,  if  it  were  required.  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  cannot  be  very  much  interested  there 
any  longer,  if  he  does  not  even  wish  to  know  that! 
She  parts  from  him  with  a  long,  warm  handclasp  that 
can  mean  everything  or  nothing,  just  as  he  may  choose 
to  think.  She  will  follow  this  up.  Old  friendship  is 
a  handy  cloak. 

In  Sammy's  mind,  however,  as  he  hurries  along  down 
to  Sylvia's  apartment  with  but  three  dollars  left  from 
the  fund  taken  for  the  evening's  entertainment,  there 
is  nothing  but  the  stunning  news  about  Carrie.  That 
Dorothy  is  left  with  the  impression  of  his  intimacy  with 
Sylvia,  and  of  a  play  withdrawn  because  of  a  depres- 
sion, but  soon  to  be  followed  by  another  for  Miss  Tre- 
maine,  he  has  not  the  least  conception.  He  has  not 
explained,  and  the  conclusion  is  unescapable.  To 
him  there  is  but  the  one  vital  fact:  the  piercing  dread 
of  some  of  those  old  letters  of  Carrie's  has  become  a 
grim  reality;  he  has  lost  her  for  good  and  all.  He 
does  not  care  to  see  Dorothy  again. 

He  knows  now,  however,  what  Carrie  meant  in 
that  first  letter  of  hers.  A  vision!  Well,  he  has  a 
vision,  too,  now.  Thank  God  for  that!  There  is 
nothing  that  can  upset  his  grim  determination  to 
follow  out  to  the  bitter  end  this  path  he  is  treading. 
He  has  a  purpose  in  the  world,  an  ideal;  and  will 
attain  it  despite  everything.  There  have  been  others. 
A  world  of  pharisees!  The  phrase  recurs  to  him. 
Will  that  music  ever  cease  resounding  in  his  soul? 

In  her  apartment  Sylvia  surveys  him  with  a  little 
stab  of  pain  at  the  look  still  in  his  eyes.  He  has  not 
forgotten  that  old  trouble  of  his  yet,  she  thinks.  What 
would  she  not  give  to  stir  him  like  this?  It  is  his 
trouble,  nevertheless,  and  she  wishes  passionately  to 
help  him  no  matter  at  what  cost. 

'  I  wouldn't  care,"  she  is  saying  hotly.     "I  would 


THE  BALANCE  231 

go  back  to-morrow,  and  see  her!  I  wouldn't  let  any 
one  take  her  from  me  if  I  loved  her  and  wanted  her!" 

But  S.  Sydney  Tappan  has  spread  out  his  hands. 

"Just  seventy-eight  dollars,  Sylvia,"  he  says  in 
grim  jest.  "See  my  hoard!" 

Sylvia  starts  back  in  amazement. 

"You  are  joking,  Sydney,"  she  says.     "It  can't  be." 

"It  is,"  says  Sammy  grimly. 

"Not  while  I  have  money,"  she  says  impetuously. 
"All  I  have  is  yours,  Tappy — don't  think  of  that  for  a 
minute — money!  Good  God,  what  is  money  just  now?" 

He  smiles. 

"Perhaps  she  doesn't  want  me  any  longer,  Sylvia,"  he 
says  painfully. 

"She's  a  fool  if  she  doesn't,"  Sylvia  retorts.  "Any- 
way, Tappy,  you  must  go  and  see " 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"No  prospects,  now,"  he  says  oddly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cries  Sylvia.  "What  is  back 
of  it  all  in  your  mind  ?  You  aren't  worrying  about  sup- 
porting her,  are  you?  With  your  ability?  You  can 
sell  all  you  can  write,  I  know  it!  I  can  place  it.  This 
depression  can't  last  forever!" 

"You  don't  understand,  Sylvia,"  he  says  at  last.  He 
has  a  strange,  new  doubt  of  his  own  worthiness  added  to 
the  growing  conviction  that  his  fight  with  poverty  has 
only  begun  in  all  its  phases.  "It  is  all  different,  there — 
different  from  your  standards,  your  ideas — I  can't  ask 
her,  anyway  to "  He  falls  silent. 

She  flushes. 

"I  am  cheap,  I  know,"  she  says  strangely.  She 
realizes  for  perhaps  the  first  time  the  gulf  their  past  has 
placed  between  them. 

Sammy  is  touched. 

"You're  all  gold,  Sylvia,"  he  says  huskily.  He 
stoops  a  moment,  and  kisses  her  hand.  "I  know  that." 

In  Sylvia's  soul,  however,  there  is  a  queer  despair. 
She  feels  helpless,  as  though  she  were  struggling  with 
some  weird  enemy  whom  she  cannot  see,  and  so  does  not 


232  THE  BALANCE 

know  how  to  fight.  This  trouble  of  Sydney's  is  mental, 
with  roots  far  down  in  soil  she  has  never  seen.  If  only 
it  could  be  solved  by  action,  by  emotion,  by  beauty! 
With  a  little  sob  she  realizes  her  limitations;  the  limita- 
tions of  her  brains.  Her  charm — of  what  avail  all  this 
passionate  charm  of  hers  to-night,  when  it  does  not  win 
this  man  for  her,  or  help  him  in  the  hour  of  his  trouble? 
She  is  lifting  to-night,  almost  for  the  first  time,  the  cross 
she  will  hereafter  bear. 

"Oh,  I've  changed,"  Sammy  bursts  out.  "That's  all 
— Sylvia.  It's  what  she  wanted — I  can't  write  that — 
that  stuff  any  longer.  I've  changed — somehow!" 

"But  can't  you  write  it  a  little  longer — to  get  her?" 
cries  Sylvia  in  astonishment. 

"Good  God,  that's  it!"  says  Sammy,  striding  up  and 
down  before  the  fire.  "The  damnable  part  of  it — I 
can't  have  her  if  I  continue  to  write  it.  She  doesn't 
want  me,  can't  have  me.  And  if  I  don't,  I  can't  have 
her  myself — don't  you  see?  It's  one  of  those  vicious 
circles!" 

He  knows  too  well  his  financial  chances  with  a  play 
like  "Doctor  Paulding,"  to  blind  himself  to  what  he  is 
doing.  He  must  contain  himself  in  patience  if  he  is  to 
tread  this  path  he  has  entered;  a  patience  which  he  has 
no  right  to  require  Carrie  to  share  on  West  Twenty- 
ninth  Street,  if  she  can  love  another  in  happiness. 
Poverty  is  not  overburdened  with  self-assurance. 

"Write  me  a  play,"  she  says,  an  odd  look  in  her  face. 
"I'll  break  with  Friedman  and  produce  it!"  She  is 
offering  her  oldest  friendship  upon  the  altar  of  his 
necessity  did  he  but  know  it.  She  does  not  exactly 
understand  his  difficulty,  but  she  does  know  that  her 
name  will  carry  almost  any  play  to  a  financial  suc- 
cess. 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"I  can't  write  one  for  you,  any "  he  starts;  and 

stops,  aghast  at  the  thing  he  was  about  to  say. 

A  light  flashes  upon  her. 

"Because  I  am  cheap,"  she  says  in  a  strange,  low 


THE  BALANCE  233 

tone.  "Cheap  and  vulgar,  and  degrading,  Tappy — I 
don't  elevate  at  all!  Is  that  it?" 

"No,  no!"  he  cries,  strangely  shaken. 

"It  is,"  she  says  imperiously.  "I  know  it!  Don't 
you  suppose  I  know  what  they  say  about  me?" 

"It  isn't  that!"  cries  Sammy.  "It  is  that  I've  got 
something  fine  this  time,  Sylvia — something  I  can't 
sacrifice." 

She  turns  on  him  quickly. 

"A  message?"  she  demands.  And,  as  he  nods,  she 
throws  up  her  arms  in  dismay.  "Good-night!  Tappy! 
In  pace  requiescat,  S.  Sydney  Tappan.  What  is  it?" 

"Poverty,"  he  says,  stung.  "The  poverty  that  is  all 
about  us " 

"Poverty!"  she  groans.  "They  don't  want  poverty 
in  the  theatre.  Rot  and  insanity,  Sydney.  It's  en- 
tertainment they  want ! " 

"Well,  by  God,  I've  got  it!"  he  says,  flashing  fire  at 
last. 

They  could  say  anything  they  wished  to  S.  Sydney 
Tappan,  so  long  as  they  left  his  dramatic  gift  alone. 
Criticism  of  that  made  of  him  a  raging  tiger.  "  I've  got 
a  play,  a  real  play!  A  play  they  can't  escape  from.  A 
play  that  will  sweep  the  country,  and  their  souls!  I 
know  it — I'm  no  fool  about  things  like  that.  I  have  a 
thousand  Ladies  in  Lion  Ski~s  in  a  half-hour  of  this — I 
would  stake  my  life  on  it!" 

This  is  a  new  Sammy  to  Sylvia  Tremaine,  but  she  is 
touched  to  the  quick  now. 

"Too  good  for  Sylvia  Tremaine,  I  suppose?"  she 
says,  like  a  rapier. 

"Not  for  the  real  Sylvia,"  he  cries  significantly. 

She  looks  at  him  for  a  moment.  Then  a  little,  bitter 
laugh  comes  to  her  lips. 

"Which  is  the  real?"  she  cries.  There  is  a  wild,  new 
conflict  in  her  soul,  a  strange,  fierce  antagonism. 
"Which  is  the  real,  Sydney — talking  to  you  here,  or  out 
on  the  stage,  your  heroine  of  passion  ?  Don't  talk  to  me 
of  the  real  Sylvia!  Perhaps  I  want  you,  and  won't  stop 


234  THE  BALANCE 

at  anything  to  get  you,  keep  you,  sell  myself  to  you  for 
the  price  of  a  play;  perhaps  that  is  the  real  me — not 
what  you  see  here  in  the  apartment ' 

She  stares  at  him  hotly,  her  breath  coming  fast  and 
thick.  Her  brain  is  a  little  bit  in  a  whirl.  Then  she 
flings  her  hands  back  of  her  head  and  laughs. 

"Perhaps  I've  fallen  in  love  with  you  because  you 
haven't  ever  made  love  to  me,"  she  says.  "Who 
knows?  Who  knows,  I'm  a  contrary  thing.  What  is 
the  real  Sylvia?" 

Her  expression  changes,  and  she  looks  at  him  a  little 
wistfully. 

"Feel  a  tiny  bit  sorry  for  me,  Tappy,  anyway.  I'm 
too  old  to  change  much,  any  more.  I  couldn't  live 
without  the  stage  I  have  been  used  to.  It  is  life  to  me. 
You  would  hate  me  in  a  little  while  if  I  should  try  to 
change — there  is  nothing  left  except  when  I  am  acting. 
There  is  no  real  Sylvia  any  more." 

She  rises  and  makes  a  little  face. 

"You're  right,  Tappy — you  should  have  said  it  all. 
Tell  me  about  the  first  two  acts,  even  if  I  can't  ever  play 
it." 

He  looks  at  her,  a  new  feeling  tugging  at  his  heart.  I 
wonder  is  it  pity?  She  had  looked  iust  a  trifle  old  for  a 
fleeting  second. 

"You  could  do  it,  Sylvia,"  he  says  hoarsely.  "Be- 
fore Heaven,  you  could!" 

"Do  what?"  she  asks  bluntly. 

"The  play "  he  begins. 

But  she  cuts  him  short. 

"Forget  it,  Tappy,"  she  says  grimly.  "You  can't 
teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks.  They'd  be  looking  for  the 
wrong  thing  all  the  while.  Sylvia  Tremaine's  mark  is 
made  too  plainly  now,  I  think,  Tappy.  Let's  eat!" 

It  is  not  until  the  door  at  West  Twenty-ninth  Street 
closes  behind  him  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  sees  plainly 
the  figure  of  Sylvia  standing  staring  after  him,  as  he 
blazes  his  way  onward  down  the  Future,  her  hand  upon 
her  heart,  and  on  her  lips  an  odd  little  smile  of  pain.  She 


THE  BALANCE  235 

will  never  have  a  vision,  although  she  wants  it  so  badly. 
She  has  gone  so  far  down  her  path  that  she  can  never 
turn  back  now.  Her  next  play  was  "A  Modern  Cleo- 
patra," if  my  memory  is  right. 

If  only  Sammy  had  loved  her,  she  might  have  changed 
after  all.  I  do  not  think,  however,  that  he  was  ever 
sure  just  how  much  she  really  meant  of  what  she  said. 
Perhaps,  though,  that  was  merely  his  way  of  declining 
to  see  that  he  had  refused  her. 

Poor  Sylvia!  I  am  afraid  he  did  not  think  of  her 
once  again  that  night  after  the  door  had  closed  behind 
him  at  two  o'clock  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street.  He 
was  thinking,  with  a  little  ache  around  his  heart,  of 
Carrie. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN  WHICH  MR.  SCHROEDER  AND  JOHN  ROUSE  CONSPIRE 
TOGETHER,  ALTHOUGH    NEITHER  OF   THEM 
KNOWS  IT,  AND  CARRIE  LEAVES  MEL- 
CHESTER,  AS  A  RESULT 

THERE  was  little  opportunity  allowed  Carrie  for 
thinking  about  herself  that  winter  in  Melchester.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  any  doubt  of  the  ultimate  suc- 
cess of  her  work  ever  presented  itself  to  her,  also.  But 
the  tasks  of  each  day  pressed  hard  and  fast  upon  the 
occupants  of  the  house  on  Hague  Street  as  the  biting 
cold  of  the  northern  winter  set  in,  and  the  snow  and  ice 
festooned  the  dark,  draughty  houses  of  the  poor,  and  the 
milk  upon  the  crooked  window  sills  of  the  tenements 
of  Melchester  froze  and  thrust  out  its  icy  head  to  meet 
the  blast  from  Canada  and  Lake  Erie.  Gone  now,  in 
great  measure,  the  ever-threatening  menace  of  outside 
disease,  and  come  the  endless  misery  of  bleak,  raw  morn- 
ings, and  cold,  nipping,  gelid,  wintry  nights,  when  the 
frosty  gale  swept  through  the  creaking  dwellings,  and 
the  warmth  of  God  Himself  seemed  to  have  departed 
from  the  shivering  inmates. 

The  little  playground  in  the  rear  of  the  Settlement 
house  is  dark  and  icy,  the  small,  thin  trees  seeming  to 
moan  a  little,  in  the  snowy  dusk  of  February  after- 
noons, for  the  voices  of  the  summer;  voices  only  heard 
from  afar  off,  now  and  then,  when  the  wind  brings  the 
sound  of  children  crying  from  the  shut-in,  stuffy  rooms 
of  the  comfortless,  squalid  tenements;  hiding-places, 
now,  for  the  youth  of  Hague  Street,  until  the  mean, 
sleety  streets  are  transformed  into  playgrounds  once 
more  by  the  sun  of  summer.  Melchester  has  its  tene- 

236 


THE  BALANCE  237 

ments  nowadays,  you  see — it  has  progressed  from  the 
little  city  of  thirty  years  ago. 

The  snow  lies  white  and  clean,  however,  except  where 
the  traffic  has  soiled  the  pavements  and  walks.  There 
are  few  factories  running  this  year  of  the  depression,  and 
no  soot  from  the  chimneys  of  industry  floats  over  the 
snow  of  Hague  Street.  The  snow  is  deep  this  winter, 
also,  so  deep  that  there  have  been  complaints  from  the 
limousine  owners  of  Washington  Avenue  upon  the  con- 
dition of  the  streets  for  motor  driving.  The  great  elms 
are  beautiful,  their  graceful  branches  filled  with  the 
tracery  of  the  Winter  God.  In  the  country,  where  the 
ice  in  the  creeks  glitters  in  the  sun,  the  fields  rest  quietly 
beneath  their  covering  of  white,  and  the  forests  sway 
gently,  clothed  in  magic,  flashing  brilliant  gems  upon 
their  moving  branches,  with  here  and  there  the  solid 
green  of  hemlocks  and  firs  holding  out  always  the  mem- 
ory of  summer.  Summer  will  come  again! 

Summer  will  not  come  again,  however,  for  many  of  the 
people  Carrie  is  looking  after  this  bleak  winter.  She 
has  had  to  fight  hard  against  the  prejudice  which  she  has 
found  attaches  to  charity  among  the  poor.  Some  of 
these  people  will  die  for  lack  of  proper  attendance  rather 
than  call  on  charity  for  assistance.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, the  wall  of  bias  has  crumbled  before  the  untiring 
efforts  of  the  nurses,  and  that  part  of  her  task  is  over. 
She  is  one  of  them,  despite  her  origin,  and  they  no 
longer  resent  her  in  the  cold,  dirty  tenements  where 
haggard  women  lift  hot  boilers  of  wash,  and  starving  in- 
fants cough  upon  the  floor.  How  often  she  has  wished 
that  her  father  might  spend  just  one  night  in  these  tene- 
ments on  Hague  Street;  might  look  in  the  frosty  win- 
dows a  while  from  the  barren  fire-escapes — places 
deserted  now,  since  the  molten  heat  of  summer  is  gone, 
and  icy  winter  makes  them  choice  sleeping  quarters  no 
longer. 

She  is  certain,  now,  that  Settlements  can  never  make 
over  America — and  yet,  slowly  but  surely,  they  are  get- 
ting hold  of  the  children!  The  children  of  the  tene- 


238  THE  BALANCE 

ments,  the  poor  of  to-morrow.  Surely  this  is  some- 
thing. Too,  she  can  feel  that  up  through  the  mass  of 
society  there  is  permeating  gradually  the  consciousness 
of  social  justice,  blind,  unthinking  as  yet,  sometimes  a 
mere  impulse  without  real  knowledge,  but  vital,  real, 
flaming  nevertheless.  That  half-glimpsed  vision  of 
Sammy's,  the  night  they  walked  home  before  the  play, 
recurs  to  her  these  days  with  ever-increasing  force. 
Can  these  Settlements  hold  the  balance  from  destruction 
while  slow,  sodden  society  moves  painfully,  infinitesi- 
mally  toward  the  goal?  Life  is  to-day  to  the  down- 
trodden, foreign  miner  of  the  Hocking  Valley  as  much 
as  in  the  elm-shadowed  mansions  of  Washington  Avenue. 
Will  the  vast  class  they  of  the  Hocking  Valley  sym- 
bolize wait,  she  wonders?  Or  is  the  adjustment  of  so- 
ciety so  slow  that  to  them  no  movement  is  visible,  and 
do  they  think  the  wait  will  be  forever  unless  they  move 
themselves  ? 

Over  in  O'Halloran's  saloon  there  is  a  symptom  of  un- 
rest which  does  not  augur  well  for  that  patient  wait  in 
Melchester  this  winter.  In  the  warmth  and  comfort 
there,  O'Halloran  is  keeping  an  eye  upon  John  Rouse 
where  he  sits  drinking  moodily,  sparingly,  around  him  a 
group  of  silent,  half-angry,  sullen  workmen.  That 
strike  indorsed  by  the  Federation  of  Labour  has  spread 
now,  until  half  the  city's  trades  are  involved,  beside  the 
ill-advised  new  union  of  the  clerks,  and  O'Halloran  wants 
no  disturbance  in  his  place.  This  Rouse  is  an  Industrial 
Worker  of  the  World,  and  may  be  throwing  dynamite 
before  the  evening  is  over.  O'Halloran  knows  these 
I.  W.  W.'s  for  what  they  are.  They  will  bear  watching 
if  what  the  Democrat  Herald  has  always  said  is  the 
truth. 

"Damn  your  socialists,  your  milk  and  water  political 
socialists!"  Rouse  is  saying,  harshly,  his  eyes  flashing, 
his  red  bushy  hair  standing  out  from  his  head  like  that  of 
some  animal. 

O'Halloran  can  hardly  believe  his  ears.  Aren't  so- 
cialists and  all  this  crew  alike,  he  wonders  blankly? 


THE  BALANCE  239 

He  leans  over  the  bar  to  hear  what  more  the  firebrand 
may  have  to  say. 

"Hell  is  here  right  now,  boys — and  who  in  hell  wants 
to  vote?"  Rouse  goes  on  morosely.  There  is  a  sugges- 
tion of  a  smouldering  volcano  about  him.  "Suckers! 
That's  what  you  are,  suckers!  Every  one  of  you. 
What's  your  fine  Federation  of  Labour  going  to  do  for 
you,  I'd  like  to  know?  Treat  you  like  the  Brotherhood 
of  Engineers  did !  Use  you  to  climb  out  of  the  dirt  with, 
and  then  throw  you  over!  Look  at  them — too  proud 
to  help  in  any  strike  now  because  they've  got  what  they 
want !  I've  been  a  Knight  of  Labour — you  can't  tell  me 
anything.  What's  the  use  of  it  all?  Vote!  Vote, 
they  tell  you !  What's  the  good  of  that,  when  every  one 
of  'em  is  a  capitalist  ticket?  Get  you  the  eight-hour 
day,  eh  ?  Well,  what's  the  good  of  an  eight-hour  day — ' 
if  they  can  throw  you  out  of  work  whenever  they  want 
to?  Answer  me  that?" 

He  takes  a  long  drink  of  his  beer.  These  men  around 
him  do  not  all  agree  with  him,  but  they  are  silent. 
Rouse  knows  what  he  thinks,  and  they  do  not;  and  so  he 
dominates. 

"And  your  patriotism — and  your  army!"  he  laughs, 
sneeringly,  while  the  men  at  the  tables  shift  uncomfort- 
ably. There  is  in  them  still  an  indefinable  feeling  for 
this  country  in  which  they  get  their  living — a  feeling 
that  rouses  a  little  at  these  words  of  his.  They  are  not 
desperate  enough  yet  to  have  lost  their  inherited  tradi- 
tion. It  is  only  in  the  men  of  foreign  birth  that  the 
sneer  meets  with  real  approval.  They  have  experienced 
the  power  of  the  military  in  Odessa,  in  Berlin,  perhaps 
in  Birmingham. 

Rouse  is  not  daunted.  He  can  see  only  the  ignorance 
of  these  men  before  him — of  their  personal  situation  in 
the  world. 

"The  militia — the  regulars!  Go  and  fight  for  what? 
Capitalist  property  ?  The  right  to  lose  my  job  ?  Think, 
in  God's  name,  boys!  Join  the  National  Guard  or  the 
Army  and  go  shoot  down  your  brother  workmen?  Is 


240  THE  BALANCE 

that  what  you  want  to  do  ?  Fight  for  the  capitalist,  as 
well  as  work  for  him  ?  Both  for  wages  ?  Wages !  Who 
wants  just  wages?  Fools  who  don't  know  any  better! 
That's  what  all  these  employers  think  we  are — fools! 
And,  by  God,  we  are!" 

There  is  a  murmur  of  approval  at  this.  Rouse  looks 
around  him,  his  smouldering  eyes  lighting  a  little. 

"One  big  union,  that's  what  we  want!  The  I.  W.  W. 
and  direct  action!  Altogether — one  test;  do  you  work 
for  wages  ?  If  you  do,  by  God,  you're  with  us !  To  hell 
with  their  law,  and  churches — all  capitalist!  We'll 
stick  together,  too — direct  action!" 

It  is  the  counsel  of  despair  that  this  busy-headed  revo- 
lutionist is  preaching  to  these  disgruntled  strikers  to- 
night. He  calls  himself  I.  W.  W.  or  syndicalist,  and  it 
is  the  red  flag  of  destruction,  of  revolution  that  he  is 
calling  for  to  accomplish  his  ends.  Only  one  man,  too, 
this  John  Rouse;  one  of  thousands  sprinkled  across  the 
continent  from  the  leaden-coloured  hills  of  Butte  to  the 
narrow  streets  of  Fall  River,  Mass.;  from  the  rocky  hills 
of  the  copper  country  beside  the  cold  blue  of  Lake 
Superior  to  the  flaring  mills  of  West  Virginia  as  they 
stretch  along  the  Ohio  River,  lighting  up  the  turbid 
stream  at  night  with  their  flames  of  steel — thousands, 
preaching  this  same  doctrine  of  destruction,  of  revolu- 
tion— undermining  the  staid  labour  unions,  revolution- 
ary once  themselves,  sapping  the  roots  of  the  -socialists' 
broad  ideas  of  universal  opportunity  and  socialized 
industries,  catching  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  in- 
dustrial stream,  the  failures,  the  wrecks,  the  unsuccess- 
ful, the  bankrupt,  the  hungry,  the  poor,  the  red-hot 
visionaries,  the  fanatics,  the  dreamers,  carrying  them  all 
along  to  destruction  upon  the  platform  of  class  con- 
sciousness, class  victory,  selfishness  personified;  ignoring 
all  classes  other  than  their  own,  declaring  war  upon  that 
vast  public  beyond  all  classification  who  struggle  vainly 
to  make  a  living  between  the  grindstones  of  the  in- 
dustrial strife. 

Destruction,  riot,  bloodshed! 


THE  BALANCE  241 

Will  the  rest  of  the  world  see  it  all  plainly  enough,  or 
will  they  refuse,  while  the  balance  swings  more  and 
more  until  the  world  goes  crashing  down  again,  and 
they  are  left  gaping  among  the  ruins?  Ignorance  is 
weighing  on  the  scales  in  O'Halloran's  saloon  to-night. 

A  lanky,  black-haired  man  with  a  face  something 
like  a  turtle's  is  answering  John  Rouse. 

"That's  all  right,  John  Rouse,"  he  is  saying,  "but 
how  about  now?  To-night?  I've  got  a  wife,  and 
children,  and  I've  got  to  earn  food  for  them.  You  tell 
me  how  to  feed  them  to-night,  and  I'm  with  your  one 
Big  Union." 

Another  murmur  of  approval  goes  up  from  the  men. 
These  plans  never  seem  to  have  much  to  do  with  the 
present  as  they  know  it.  Men  with  families  cannot 
afford  to  join  a  desperate  cause  unless  forced  to  it. 

Rouse's  eyes  contract. 

"Is  your  strikers'  committee  feeding  them?"  he 
asks  scornfully.  "No,  by  God!  They  got  you  to 
strike  and  now  they  leave  you  in  the  lurch!  That's 
all  the  good  organized  labour  is  to  you.  Get  you  out, 
and  then  tell  you  to  slink  back  like  a  lot  of  whipped 
curs,  and  beg  back  your  old  jobs.  Dp  you  want  me  to 
tell  you  to-night  to  strike  for  the  one  Big  Union  like  that  ? 
I  want  your  confidence.  Can  I  get  it  by  thinking  first 
of  trouble,  or  of  success?  Why,  success  of  course! 
Prepare  first,  and  then,  when  ready,  strike!  What  was 
Buchanan's  double  rule?  Is  it  just?  And  can  it 
succeed?  Of  course  it's  just.  But  can  it  succeed? 
No!  Not  yet.  So  wait!  Prepare!  And  while  you 
wait  practise  sabotage,  obstruction,  burn  down  their 
plants." 

"It's  revolution!"  says  a  light-haired  Welshman. 

"You  bet  it  is,"  cries  Rouse.  "Will  anything  else 
get  it  for  you?  No.  Force!  That's  us!  That's  our 
only  chance!" 

The  depression  has  forced  the  hand  of  these  strikers 
in  Melchester  this  winter.  The  central  treasury  can- 
not stand  the  drain  to  which  appeals  from  all  over  the 


242  THE  BALANCE 

country  are  subjecting  it.  Labour  is  in  poor  shape. 
And  so  the  Melchester  strike,  called  too  soon  in  order 
to  aid  the  hastily  organized  clerks'  union,  has  been 
called  off  again.  It  has  not  been  necessary  to  resort 
to  paid  detectives  or  strike  breakers,  with  carefully 
planned  dynamitings,  to  cast  discredit  on  and  finally 
break  up  the  strikers.  Hunger  has  taken  charge  of  the 
campaign  for  capital;  and  several  thousand  more 
recruits  have  enlisted  beneath  the  banner  of  revolution, 
with  despair  and  injustice  in  their  hearts,  and  in  their 
minds  the  final  conviction  that  there  is  no  hope,  no 
solution  for  them  except  in  the  I.  W.  W.  and  its  red 
flag  of  destruction,  despite  its  crowd  of  worthless 
hangers-on. 

Well,  who  shall  blame  them,  when  the  rest  of  the 
world  looks  coldly  on  ?  We  know  our  friends  in  times 
of  trouble  and  despair,  and  this  I.  W.  W.  is  the  only 
group  in  the  world  with  one  word  of  immediate  hope  or 
promise  for  the  disinherited  of  the  earth,  their  flag  upon 
the  streets  of  Melchester  an  accusing  finger  pointed 
directly  at  our  strangely  unresponsive  social  conscience. 
Inaction  is  sometimes  as  productive  of  results  as  vig- 
orous deeds;  it  is  usually  the  case,  however,  that  the 
results  are  not  so  pleasing.  It  is  but  natural,  therefore, 
that  we  should  not  give  a  rousing  welcome  to  this  new- 
comer in  our  midst,  a  newcomer  who  grows  daily  in  the 
power  of  despair  while  we  look  comfortably  on. 

There  are  to  be  others  besides  strikers,  however,  who 
are  to  lose  positions  in  Melchester  this  winter.  The 
losing  of  this  strike  has  made  other  people  the  winners; 
and  in  the  back  office  of  Hopkinson,  Balmer  &  Law- 
rence there  is  sitting  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  hard 
look  around  his  mouth. 

"Not  one  cent!"  Mr.'  Schroeder  is  saying  harshly  to 
the  little  group  of  mild-faced  ladies  and  uncomfortable 
clergymen  who  make  up  the  majority  of  the  directing 
committee  of  the  Hague  Settlement  Association.  "  My 
ideas  on  the  usefulness  of  such  institutions  have 
changed!" 


THE  BALANCE  243 

His  ideas! 

It  is  Carrie  who  breaks  the  silence. 

"  Because  we  have  extended  aid  impartially,  father?" 
she  asks.  She  always  went  to  the  root  of  a  thing. 

"Certainly  not!"  her  father  replies  angrily.  "Be- 
cause it  isn't  an  aid — it  simply  stirs  up  trouble,  aids 
no  one,  helps  only  these  agitators  in  their  efforts  at  dis- 
sension. I  have  no  objection  to  the  charitable  aims  of 
the  organization." 

He  is  referring  to  the  course  the  settlement  has 
taken  in  aiding  the  strikers'  families  during  this  trouble 
— yes,  and  in  guiding  some  of  them  in  their  acts.  They 
have  taught  some  of  them  to  think  and  act  for  them- 
selves, in  fact  have  taught  them  a  great  many  things 
that  have  made  them  better  able  to  continue  the  fight. 

The  little  group  is  rendered  more  uncomfortable, 
however,  by  the  strangeness  of  the  situation.  It  is 
this  man's  daughter,  who  sits  beside  Mrs.  Lewis,  on 
whom  a  great  portion  of  the  responsibility  for  the 
affair  rests.  What  shall  they  say  or  do  ?  To  them  Mr. 
Schroeder  is  one  of  the  leading  citizens  of  Melchester, 
with  power  to  make  many  gifts  to  charity;  a  man  of 
brains  and  character,  a  tremendous  success. 

In  Carrie's  mind,  however,  as  she  looks  at  him,  there 
is  the  memory  of  twenty  years  of  muddled  thinking, 
his  life  devoted  to  the  one  thing  of  making  money. 
How  can  he  be  expected  to  view  anything  outside  his 
business  with  clearness  and  fairmindedness  ?  The 
idol  has  feet  of  clay.  Making  money  does  not  fit  for 
anything  except  keeping  it.  A  bigot  in  a  position 
of  false  value  is  what  she  would  say  of  the  man  who  sits 
in  the  mahogany  chair,  were  he  any  one  except  her 
father.  Into  her  mind  flashes  the  picture  of  John  Rouse 
talking  to  disgruntled  strikers  in  the  streets  of  Mel- 
chester. Somehow,  he  bears  a  strange  resemblance 
in  his  point  of  view  to  the  man  who  sits  here  in  Hop- 
kinson,  Balmer  &  Lawrence.  It  is  in  his  stubborn- 
ness, she  decides,  the  intenseness  of  his  hate  for  people 
who  do  not  agree  with  him.  Neither  of  them  can 


244  THE  BALANCE 

yield  an  inch,  neither  ever  grant  the  other  the  smallest 
concession,  neither  concede  anything  of  justice  each  to 
the  other.  Dimly  she  realizes  that  if  both  these  two 
industrial  extremes  insist  upon  their  way  the  world 
will  crash  in  pieces  at  the  contact.  Somewhere  there 
must  be  a  compromise.  Her  father  in  his  office  is 
but  adding  to  that  weight  of  ignorance  and  despair 
which  is  becoming  so  heavy  upon  the  scales,  adding  by 
his  iron  refusal  to  even  consider  that  there  can  be 
another  side  to  this  dispute  than  his  own.  This  is 
why  he  can  condemn  the  Settlement  for  keeping  that 
open  mind  so  necessary,  if  the  balance  is  to  be  pre- 
served. 

It  is  when  the  committee  have  gone,  the  Schroeder 
ultimatum  of  charity  but  no  uplift  in  their  ears,  that 
Carrie  realizes  the  strength  of  her  father's  ideas.  He  is 
the  weak  man  of  one  idea,  and  holding  it  with  the 
strength  of  ten.  It  is  revenge,  I  think,  with  Mr. 
Schroeder  partly,  a  desire  to  show  this  daughter  with 
her  impractical  ideas  that  he  is  right  after  all,  despite 
those  ignominious  morning  conversations.  Her  sure- 
ness  has  irritated  him  ever  since  he  can  remember;  a 
sureness  seemingly  only  increased  by  the  addition  of 
a  few  years  of  knowledge.  He  will  show  her,  now! 
Well,  you  always  were  a  trifle  too  sure,  Carrie;  but  you 
have  lost  a  little  of  it,  I  think,  in  those  tenements  on 
Hague  Street,  whether  your  father  can  see  it  or  not. 
Ideas  are  curious  things  and  Mr.  Schroeder  is  not  buying 
or  selling  groceries  to-day. 

"What  do  you  really  want,  father?"  she  asks  quietly, 
at  last.  "Do  you  want  to  destroy  the  Settlement  for 
the  work  it  is  doing,  or  do  you  want  me  to  resign?" 
She  has  a  shrewd  idea  that  a  good  part  of  his  opposition 
comes  from  her  participation  in  the  work. 

He  looks  at  her  in  an  odd  way.  He  has  never  under- 
stood this  daughter  of  his,  and  yet  he  has  always  had  for 
her  a  certain  respect,  a  certain  admiration  which  he  has 
never  granted  the  others. 

"You  can  do  what  you  like,"  he  says.     There  is  a 


THE  BALANCE  245 

trace  of  irritation  in  his  tone,  which  he  tries  hard  to 
conceal.  "You  are  usually  quite  certain  of  your  course. 
I  can  only  say  what  I  said  before.  So  long  as  you  care 
to  pursue  this  course  of  which  we  do  not  approve  we  can 
hardly  be  blamed  for  withholding  our  support — and 
any  others  we  can  influence.  The  thing  is  pernicious, 
a  menace.  You  are  merely  a  girl,  and  do  not  under- 
stand." 

"I  see,"  she  says  steadily.  "We  must  hold  your 
ideas  if  we  are  to  receive  your  money?* 

"Certainly,"  he  replies.  He  looks  out  the  window  a 
moment  before  going  on.  "Of  course,  I  am  not  saying 
anything  about  my  personal  feelings  in  the  matter.  It 
isn't  necessary  to  state  that  treachery  in  the  family 
isn't  the  most  pleasant  thing  to  contemplate." 

This  is  a  deliberate  attempt  to  place  his  daughter  in 
the  wrong.  She  feels  it  immediately,  and  gazes  at  him 
unwaveringly. 

"It  isn't  treachery  to  think  for  ones'  self,"  she  says. 
"That  is  one  reason  I  left  No.  1200  Washington,  so 
that  I  shouldn't  be  either  a  traitor  or  a  hypocrite.  I 
have  always  told  you  what  I  thought.  Your  money 
shouldn't  be  allowed  to  make  us  all  hypocrites.  We  will 
do  without  it." 

There  is  little  of  the  old  relation  left  between  these  two 
any  longer.  Years  of  intellectual  differences  have  had 
their  inevitable  effect. 

Mr.  Schroeder  straightens  up  in  his  chair. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing,  Carolyn,"  he 
says.  "You  won't  get  any  support  financially  if  you 
don't  get  ours.  Capital  is  standing  together  these  days. 
I  shouldn't  warn  you  if  you  weren't  my  daughter." 

It  is  an  open  threat,  a  plain  statement  of  the  case. 
Into  Carrie's  mind  comes  the  realization  that  this 
Settlement  for  which  she  works,  and  which  she  wishes 
so  intensely  to  succeed  in  the  task  it  has  but  begun,  is 
in  reality  absolutely  dependent  upon  her  father  and  the 
men  he  can  control  for  its  continued  existence.  For  a 
little  instant  she  sees  why  the  poor  despise  charity. 


246  THE  BALANCE 

What  a  tremendous  force,  too,  this  is  which  her  father 
is  bringing  to  bear  upon  her  in  his  threat  of  withdrawal 
of  support!  If  she  wishes  her  ideas  to  prevail  she  must 
see  the  people  in  her  tenements  deprived  of  even  the 
little  godsend  the  Settlement  aid  has  been.  I  do  not 
think  that  from  that  moment  there  was  in  her  mind  a 
second's  doubt  as  to  what  her  course  should  be.  She 
saw  too  plainly  the  babies,  the  dun  childhood  of  Hague 
Street  to  ever  hesitate  for  herself.  In  that  moment 
there  came  to  her,  also,  a  great  sympathy  for  the  men 
and  women  of  the  world,  the  clergymen,  the  social 
workers — placed  in  this  same  position  of  hers.  And  I 
think,  too,  the  remnants  of  her  love  for  her  father  passed 
silently  from  her  heart,  never  to  return. 

"The  fight  has  moved,  hasn't  it?"  she  says  oddly, 
gazing  at  him.  "From  tenement  work  to  industry!" 

She  will  not  give  him  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  the 
feeling  of  loneliness  this  final  gulf  between  them  has 
left  in  her  girlish  heart.  It  has  not  been  thus  that  she 
has  conceived  of  father  and  daughter. 

"There's  always  a  fool  reformer  looking  around  for 
trouble,  everywhere,"  her  father  says  scornfully.  He 
has  gotten  this  from  the  columns  of  the  Democrat  Herald. 
A  great  comfort  to  him,  that  paper! 

"I  suppose  the  trouble  all  lies  at  the  root,"  Carrie 
says,  half  to  herself.  "Charity  is  just  really  a  gilded 
restoration!  Isn't  it?" 

This  is  above  his  head.  How  can  even  the  painters' 
union  gild  a  restoration  ? 

"Charity  is  a  very  creditable  thing,"  he  says. 

His  daughter  does  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"A  gilded  restoration,"  she  is  saying.  "And  its 
symbol  John  Rouse's  mother,  on  a  field  of  competitive 
blood,  surmounted  by  the  motto  'Profit."' 

She  stands  up  and  holds  out  her  hand. 

"  Good-bye,  father,"  she  says  strangely.  "  If  it  makes 
any  difference  in  your  support,  I  am  going  to  resign." 

And  she  nods  to  him  quite  brightly,  and  goes  out. 

In  Mr.  Schroeder's  mind  there  is  only  the  one  thought 


THE  BALANCE  247 

as  he  looks  after  her — she  has  not  mentioned  his  gener- 
osity at  all.  Well,  at  least  she  will  have  to  see  now  that 
she  cannot  struggle  against  his  ideas.  She  has  been 
quite  crazy  on  this  subject  of  poverty.  This,  however, 
will  bring  her  to  her  senses.  She  has  seen  that  she 
must  give  up  her  ideas  if  the  Settlement  is  to  go  on. 
The  strike,  too,  is  settled  satisfactorily.  Perhaps 
things  are  straightening  themselves  out  after  all. 
Possibly  Carrie  will  return  home  now  and  take  up  her 
position  in  society  as  she  should.  That  she  will  never 
do  so  again  does  not  occur  to  him.  A  man  of  extremely 
short  vision,  our  Mr.  Schroeder.  He  can  never  con- 
ceive of  any  one  doing  anything  which  will  not  directly 
redound  to  that  person's  material  benefit.  I  fear  he 
gives  to  charity  only  because  it  is  looked  upon  with 
distinct  approval  by  society.  Society  has  been  engaged 
in  it  for  some  time.  That  always  settled  everything 
with  Mr.  Schroeder. 

I  almost  hate  to  look  into  our  Carrie's  mind,  two 
weeks  later,  as  she  removes  her  scanty  luggage  from  the 
little  bedroom  in  the  house  on  Hague  Street.  It  is 
because,  through  her  misty  eyes,  I  can  see  that  tiny 
thought  in  the  back  of  her  mind':  she  is  giving  thanks 
for  Sammy.  He  has  never  written  her  but  the  play  has 
stayed  withdrawn.  Humanity  cannot  all  be  like  her 
father;  there  must  be  other  Sammys. 

There  does  not  seem  to  be  any  thought  in  her  mind 
to-day,  however,  of  that  rumoured  engagement  to  the 
young  doctor.  I  wonder  what  has  become  of  it?  We 
would  not  wonder  long  could  we  look  into  Mrs. 
Schroeder's  upstairs  room  and  see  the  look  of  sad- 
ness upon  her  face.  She  is  realizing  now  for  the 
first  time  that  Carrie  is  the  only  one  of  her  family  for 
whom  she  really  cares.  Is  it,  I  wonder,  because  this 
middle-aged  lady  feels  that  of  them  all  this  recalcitrant 
daughter  is  the  only  one  who  cares  for  her,  too?  The 
sadness  is  because  she  knows  now  that  they  have  lost 
Carrie  finally  and  irrevocably.  She  is  not  returning  to 
the  house  upon  Washington  Avenue  except  for  dinner 


248  THE  BALANCE 

before  going  to  New  York.  That  fair-haired  doctor, 
whom  Mrs.  Schroeder  hoped  so  much  might  capture 
her  daughter's  heart,  has  gotten  Carrie  a  position  in  the 
Settlements  of  the  East  Side  where  the  work  is  always 
at  hand,  endless,  never  done.  His  attentions  have  not 
resulted  in  an  engagement,  after  all. 

Mr.  Schroeder  has  received  the  news  without  any 
comment  whatever.  He  will  be  stubborn  until  the 
end.  There  was  never  any  quarter  in  the  struggle  be- 
tween the  generations  of  the  Schroeders.  Perhaps  they 
were  all  too  sure! 

The  only  difference  noticeable  to-day  in  this  latest  dis- 
agreement of  the  family  is  that  Mrs.  Schroeder  has  called 
no  one  fool.  She  has  been  looking  back  over  the  past 
since  this  clear-eyed  daughter  of  hers  was  a  child,  mark- 
ing the  steps  which  have  led  so  inexorably  to  the  final 
parting.  What  fools  they  all  have  been,  not  to 
have  realized  before  this  that  children  still  are  human 
souls,  with  ideas  and  purposes  and  lives  of  their  own  to 
live.  Her  Carrie  is  going  away  to-day,  perhaps  for- 
ever, because  they  have  not  taken  thought  in  time. 

She  is  just  her  child,  however,  whom  she  does  not  ex- 
pect to  know  again,  as  she  sits,  that  evening,  having 
dinner  with  the  assembled  family  in  the  old-fashioned 
dining-room  which  has  seen  so  many  memorable  scenes 
of  the  Schroeders.  And  yet  Mrs.  Schroeder  is  not  so 
very  keen,  either,  or  she  would  notice  that  odd  look  in 
Carrie's  eyes.  It  is  very  plain  when  no  one  is  talking 
to  her;  and  her  heart  comes  in  her  eyes. 

It  is  not  all  the  pain  of  a  parting,  that  look — a  sudden 
pain  the  daughter  of  the  house  of  Schroeder  cannot 
control.  Nor  is  it  the  picture  of  the  childhood  of 
Hague  Street  waving  good-bye  to  her  in  the  rain;  nor, 
either,  a  jumbled  glimpse  of  New  York,  and  her  strange 
future  among  people  she  has  never  seen.  It  is  the 
queer  stab  of  loneliness  that  has  pierced  her  with  a  pain 
as  poignant,  as  new,  as  if  she  had  never  felt  its  like  be- 
fore. She  has  learned  from  Dorothy  of  the  new  play  for 
Sylvia,  and  the  withdrawal  of  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion 


THE  BALANCE  249 

Skin  '  because  of  the  depression.  A  depression,  instead 
of  a  new  Sammy!  She  has  not  been  able  to  think  of 
anything  else  since  she  first  learned  it.  She  remembers 
her  letter  with  little  shivers  of  humiliation.  She  sees 
now  why  he  has  never  answered.  What  must  he  think 
of  her  ?  After  all,  he  is  a  stranger,  too,  she  sees.  She 
is  really  alone. 

It  is  why  she  steers  the  conversation  at  the  table  as 
far  as  possible  from  the  things  she  is  actually  thinking. 
Indeed,  conversation  at  the  Schroeders'  never  had  too 
much  connection  with  the  reality  of  their  lives.  It  was 
more  like  a  mental  fog  than  anything,  a  fog  behind 
which  the  combatants  hugged  their  own  thoughts  to 
their  bosoms,  and  defied  the  enemy  to  come  on,  and 
discover  what  they  really  thought. 

So  she  eats  her  dinner  in  a  strange  little  chatter  of 
talk,  directed  mostly  at  her  mother,  and  meaning  noth- 
ing, swallowing  down  meanwhile  that  lump  in  her 
throat  which  threatens  now  and  then  to  overcome  her; 
and  has  said  good-bye  in  the  hall,  and  driven  down  to  the 
station  before  the  tears  come  to  her  eyes  in  the  dark  of 
the  taxicab. 

"And  they  say  he  is  just  crazy  about  his  Sylvia 
Tremaine,"  Dorothy  has  said,  she  remembers,  as  she 
steps  out  at  the  new  station. 

Well,  it  is  not  entirely  that,  Carrie  tells  herself;  it 
is  principally  that  she  has  always  counted  upon  him  in 
spite  of  the  trouble  of  the  past  months — and  he  has 
gone  the  way  of  the  rest  of  the  world  now.  Beneath  it 
all,  however,  I  think,  there  is  a  starved  fire  of  affection 
for  him  that  she  does  not  dare  to  look  at  herself.  Car- 
rie's heart  is  slowly  breaking  for  Sammy,  although  she 
will  not  admit  it  even  to  herself. 

In  the  Schroeders'  there  has  been  a  strange  silence 
after  she  has  gone.  A  silence  broken  by  the  sound  of 
some  one  weeping  in  the  kitchen.  The  soul  of  the 
Schroeders  and  Tappans  together  has  gone  away  on  the 
train — for  Annie. 

The  family  are  quite  silent. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  WHICH  FATE  FIRST  GIVES  A  HINT  THAT  SHE  MAY 
HAVE  ONE  MORE  HEROIC  ROLE  FOR  SAMMY 

IT  WAS  the  week  after  Sammy  read  the  first  two  acts 
of  "Doctor  Paulding"  to  Sylvia  that  she  spoke  about 
the  back  royalties  to  Friedman. 

He  grunted  in  his  usual  way. 

"It  will  all  be  fixed  up  this  week,  my  dear  girl,"  he 
said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 

He  did  not  usually  allow  any  one  to  ask  him  questions 
about  finance — it  is  a  sore  point  in  the  theatrical  world 
— but  he  had  never  attempted  to  conceal  from  Sylvia 
Tremaine  the  exact  state  of  his  affairs.  He  knew  that 
he  could  count  upon  her  unswerving  loyalty,  no  matter 
what  the  outlook  might  be;  and  they  had  weathered 
many  a  worse  storm  than  this  one  before. 

In  Sylvia  there  was  an  odd  sort  of  loyalty  to  this 
ungainly  fat  man,  who  had  starred  her  for  so  many 
years  since  he  had  discovered  her  playing  a  minor  part 
in  Chicago;  a  loyalty  which  would  never  allow  her  to 
even  consider  any  changing  of  managers  or  contracts 
while  he  still  stayed  in  the  game.  It  would  have  de- 
stroyed a  great  part  of  her  zest  in  life,  I  think,  not  to 
have  had  Friedman  managing  her.  Besides,  she  could 
never  have  called  any  one  else  all  the  names  she  show- 
ered upon  him.  In  her  way  she  had  a  great  fondness  for 
the  slow  German. 

Whether  on  this  occasion  he  really  intended  to  square 
his  accounts  with  Sammy,  and  was  prevented  by  un- 
foreseen circumstances;  or  whether,  in  the  back  of  his 
mind,  the  knowledge  of  Sylvia's  impending  departure 
for  a  road  tour  urged  him  to  placate  her  with  the  assur- 

250 


THE  BALANCE  251 

ance  of  his  good  intentions,  she  never  knew.  It  is 
odd  to  consider,  now,  that  upon  his  remark  hung  the 
great  sacrifice  of  our  Sammy's  life.  Had  the  truth 
been  known  to  Sylvia  during  those  next  months,  I 
doubt  exceedingly  if  any  of  their  lives  had  been  the 
same.  Ignorance  is  always  the  great  mischief  maker  of 
the  world.  In  this  case  it  allowed  Fate  to  provide  a 
stage  for  our  Sammy's  character  so  overwhelming  in 
its  dramatic  appeal  that  he  could  no  more  resist  playing 
the  leading  part  thus  offered  him  than  he  had  been  able 
to  prevent  his  first  proposal  to  Carrie,  so  many  years 
before,  beside  the  little  hawthorne  hedge  in  Melchester. 
The  idea  carried  him  away. 

It  is  why  I  have  never  been  able  myself  to  give  him 
all  the  honour  his  act  really  seems  to  deserve.  If  only 
he  had  had  some  other  character  than  that  queer  one 
he  had — he  would  have  been  a  hero  to  me,  too,  then. 
As  it  is,  I  must  confess  to  a  great  admiration  for  the 
grown-up  boy  who  responded  so  gallantly  to  a  cry  of 
distress,  and  did  not  seem  to  count  the  cost.  That  was 
heroic,  even  though  the  actor  was  not  a  hero. 

Long  afterward,  when  Sylvia  sometimes  heaped  her- 
self with  self-accusations,  S.  Sydney  Tappan  would 
console  her  with  the  assurance  that  he  would  not  have 
accepted  aid  from  her  had  she  been  there  to  proffer  it. 
She  always  knew,  however,  that  the  solution  which 
presented  itself  to  our  Sammy  as  the  only  way  out 
would  never  have  been  allowed  to  carry  him  away  had 
she  been  there. 

He  was  working  upon  the  third  act  of  "Doctor  Pauld- 
ing"  when  she  left  for  the  road  tour. 

"Three  months,  Tappy,"  she  is  saying,  a  little  rue- 
fully, in  the  Grand  Central  Station,  as  he  looks  up  at 
her  on  the  platform  of  the  observation  car.  "It's  a 
frightfully  long  time,  isn't  it  ?" 

Three  months!  In  Sammy's  mind  there ,  stretches 
the  lengthened  vista  of  the  days  of  those  three  months, 
the  sky  overcast  with  the  grim  spectre  of  want.  Three 
months!  It  will  be  spring,  then.  He  seldom  allows 


252  THE  BALANCE 

his  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  future  which  lies  beyond  the 
next  few  days.  There  is  nothing  there  but  doubt,  un- 
certainty, despair;  things  which  do  not  add  to  his  dra- 
matic ability  in  the  long,  gray  days,  the  late,  cold 
evenings,  the  dark,  gloomy  mornings  when  he  is  working 
upon  his  play.  How  slowly  it  seems  to  take  shape! 
It  almost  creeps  upon  the  page,  though  in  his  mind  it 
leaps  ahead  with  great  flashing  bounds.  How  tiny 
appears  each  forward  move  when  it  has  been  translated 
to  the  manuscript,  and  the  first  glamour  of  the  idea  has 
faded,  and  it  has  been  carved  and  fitted  into  its  place 
in  the  dramatic  structure — shorn  of  all  its  trappings 
and  a  mere  stone  in  the  pathway  of  the  theme. 

I  wonder  are  you  exclaiming  to  yourself,  "a  fool!" 
When  his  money  is  vanishing  now,  and  he  will  be  upon 
the  streets  soon  unless  something  happens — and  some- 
thing seldom  does?  Well,  our  Sammy  has  not  Ibsen's 
ability  to  earn  much-needed  meals  with  palette  and 
brush  when  other  things  fail,  as  when  the  theatre  in 
Christiana  failed  the  great  Norwegian — in  fact,  has  no 
ability  other  than  this  gift  he  is  so  determined  upon 
using.  He  has  his  great  idea,  now,  and  must  write  while 
the  fit  is  upon  him. 

That  he  is  a  victim  of  an  industrial  depression  does 
not  occur  to  him  as  he  sits  days  in  his  room,  or  tramps 
Central  Park  in  the  cold,  icy  mornings  while  his  ideas 
fall  into  shape.  He  is  simply  extremely  unlucky,  just 
now!  It  all  will  pass  in  time.  It  perhaps  was  fortu- 
nate that  the  idea  of  securing  employment  of  some  kind 
to  tide  him  over  for  the  time  being  never  did  occur  to 
him.  He  would  have  been  wasting  most  precious  time. 
In  all  New  York,  that  winter,  there  was  no  work  to  be 
had. 

His  mind  comes  back,  with  a  jump,  to  the  girl  who 
leans  over  the  car  railing  looking  anxiously  at  him  while 
he  is  turning  all  this  over  in  his  mind. 

"  I  only  hope  you  draw  well,"  he  replies  to  her  question. 

She  leans  over  and  says  in  a  low  tone: 

"Friedy  is  going  to  fix  up  the  royalties,  I  asked  him 


THE  BALANCE  253 

about  it  yesterday.  Don't  blame  him  too  much — he's 
been  having  the  devil's  own  time  of  it  these  last  months, 
Tappy!"  And  she  smiles.  "Drop  me  a  line  now  you 
have  the  route,  Sydney!  Though  I  know  you  won't! 
Two  postals  and  two  letters  were  the  sum  total  in  Bos- 
ton. You  must  do  better  than  that  this  time." 

She  looks  at  him  a  trifle  uncertainly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  runs  down  the  open  steps,  and  says,  a  little 
wistfully : 

"Kiss  me  good-bye,  now,  Tappy — I'm  going  in 
before  the  train  starts.  I  can't  bear  partings,  can 
you?" 

I  wonder  is  it  some  premonition  that  impels  her  to  do 
this?  A  forewarning  of  that  tiny  gulf  between  them 
which  will  widen  day  by  day  until  the  separation  of 
mere  distance  will  seem  of  little  moment  beside  the 
vast  chasm  between  their  souls  ?  It  is  Sylvia  whom  the 
train  is  apparently  bearing  off,  but  it  is  our  Sammy  who 
is  really  going  on. 

"Good-bye,  Sylvia,"  he  says,  with  a  little  lump  in 
his  throat  as  he  kisses  her  good-bye. 

She  is  a  brick,  this  girl  with  the  charming  smile  and 
beautiful  features — a  brick,  in  spite  of  what  she  stands 
for  on  the  stage.  It  is  the  little  cleft  in  the  rock,  that 
thought! 

He  walks  away  hastily  into  the  crowd,  nevertheless, 
lest  the  little  tears  that  fill  his  eyes  run  down  his 
cheek.  Tears!  Just  why,  he  wonders?  He  does  not 
love  Sylvia  Tremaine.  He  is  sorry  to  see  her  go,  of 
course,  but 

Well,  Sammy,  you  do  not  know  why  you  have  those 
little  tears  as  you  wave  your  handkerchief  at  the  out- 
going train,  but  I  could  have  told  you.  Tiny  waves 
of  pity  are  beginning  to  chase  across  your  heart  be- 
cause you  sense  dimly  the  unhappiness  that  is  slowly 
flooding  Sylvia's  soul.  Your  dramatic  soul  perceives 
unconsciously  this  first  act  of  the  tragedy  of  Sylvia — 
a  tragedy  that  will  play  out  its  ever-lengthening  scenes 
during  the  rest  of  her  life  whenever  she  thinks  of  you. 


254  THE  BALANCE 

That  fable  of  the  royalties  was  soon  exploded,  how- 
ever. It  was  about  a  week  later  that  Friedman 
informed  S.  Sydney  Tappan  that  he  was  going  into 
bankruptcy.  It  was  one  of  the  most  ironical  moments 
of  Sammy's  life  when  he  received,  some  two  years 
later,  a  check  from  the  United  States  Receiver  for  two 
hundred  dollars.  It  was  the  shrunken  dividend  from 
the  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin."  Received  two  years  be- 
fore, it  might  have  altered  his  whole  existence.  That 
he  got  nothing  at  all  that  winter,  it  is  needless  to  re- 
mark; also,  that  Sylvia  did  not  know  he  had  not 
been  paid  before  the  crash.  She  learned  it  months 
later,  in  the  worst  half-hour  Friedman  ever  spent. 

The  news  was  received  with  grim  humour  in  the 
room  upon  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  that  wintry 
day ;  a  humour  to  which  the  remembrance  of  the  vanished 
twenty-five  dollars  of  Dorothy's  visit  added  a  bitter 
zest. 

"Not  a  cent,  eh,  Tappy?"  Ricorton  says  with  an 
attempt  at  nonchalance. 

"Oh,  they're  all  skins,"  says  Ruby.  "No  wonder 
everybody  quits  unless  they  get  their  money  every 
Saturday  night.  They'd  strand  you,  too,  if  it  wasn't 
against  the  law  any  more." 

She  looks  on  all  managers  as  her  natural  enemies. 
There  is  a  rather  strange,  little,  worried  look  about 
her  when  she  is  not  talking,  that  does  not  seem  to  be 
all  caused  by  this  dismal  news  of  Sammy's,  however. 

"I'll  get  my  share  of  what  the  lawyers  leave,  I  sup- 
pose," replies  Sammy  quietly. 

This  is  but  natural,  too,  this  failure  of  Friedman's; 
it  is  in  line  with  his  life  so  far,  except  for  that  brilliant 
youth  his  mother  gave  him,  and  his  own  fine  flare  of 
the  year  past.  It  does  not  depress  him  in  the  least. 
In  fact,  he  does  not  seem  to  care  about  anything  these 
days  except  his  new  play.  He  does  not  like  to  think 
of  anything  else.  Somehow,  all  other  things  seem 
to  lead  to  Carrie — and  that  is  exquisite  torture. 

You  may  perhaps  have  noticed  that  the  principal 


THE  BALANCE  255 

characters  of  "Doctor  Paulding"  have  all  left  their  youth 
quite  far  behind.  It  was  our  Sammy  safeguarding 
himself  from  attacks  of  despair.  He  pretended  to 
himself  that  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  Carrie;  occasion- 
ally that  she  no  longer  interested  him;  once  in  a  while 
even  mentioning  her  name,  with  an  ill-concealed 
bravado,  while  the  other  occupants  of  the  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  room  turned  away  that  they  might  not 
see  the  look  in  his  eyes.  It  was  only  at  long  intervals, 
when  his  mind  seemed  to  have  pushed  "Doctor  Pauld- 
ing" as  far  along  its  path  as  it  would  ever  go — when  he 
lay  staring  from  his  pillow  at  the  black  tenements 
rearing  themselves  against  the  gray,  city-flushed  sky, 
that  he  allowed  himself  to  see  the  truth:  he  would 
carry  the  memory  of  her  inside  his  heart  until  he  died. 
I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  formulated  to  himself  the 
belief  that  people  love  deeply,  profoundly,  completely 
but  once.  I  think  he  only  realized  that  he  himself 
could  never  love  like  that  again.  She  still  filled  his 
heart  so  that  no  other  could  find  room  therein;  and 
somehow,  he  knew,  she  always  would.  How  useless, 
after  all,  had  been  his  losing  her! 

Ricorton  always  knew  when  these  thoughts  came  to 
him  by  the  frightful  energy  with  which  he  would  con- 
centrate next  morning  upon  "Doctor  Paulding."  He 
seemed  to  work  upon  the  play  with  an  almost  religious 
enthusiasm,  then,  as  if  he  could  live  for  that  alone, 
— while  Ricorton  ceased  playing  those  melodies  of 
the  day  upon  the  cornet  lest  they  should  add  to  his 
misery. 

Sometimes  in  after  years,  when  theatre  or  hotel 
orchestras  played  old  favourites  again,  the  eyes  of  a 
rather  tall,  slender  man,  with  gray  in  his  once  black 
hair,  would  fill,  and  he  would  devote  himself  more 
assiduously  to  the  business  in  hand.  It  was  S.  Sydney 
Tappan.  He  never  forgot  any  of  the  strange,  little 
incidents  of  that  year.  It  was  as  if  he  turned  open 
for  use  an  unusually  sensitive  film  of  his  memory  that 
winter,  and  the  impressions  remained  forever  clear, 


256  THE  BALANCE 

distinct,  undimmed,  ready  to  be  called  up  again  on 
the  instant  by  an  echo  from  the  past.  The  echoes 
were  all  pieces  of  the  one  melody  his  heart  crooned 
in  those  days,  though  he  refused  to  listen:  the  melody 
of  loneliness  and  heartbreak  with  a  high-sounding 
accompaniment  of  fine  endeavour.  It  was  only  the 
accompaniment  that  kept  the  melody  from  over- 
whelming him  at  times. 

It  was  the  night  after  the  finishing  of  "Doctor  Paulding" 
that  they  held  the  celebration  in  our  Sammy's  honour. 
They  held  it  after  eleven  at  night  because  of  Ricorton's 
new  job  in  a  picture  show — a  job  secured  just  in  time 
to  save  them  all  from  the  street.  Picture  shows 
seemed  immune  from  the  depression. 

I  hardly  think  Sammy  shared,  that  night,  in  the 
general  optimism  the  finishing  of  the  play  produced 
among  the  little  band  of  Thespians.  He  knew  in 
his  heart  that  the  struggle  had  just  begun  for  him, 
whereas  these  people  thought  it  had  ended. 

It  was  Pudney,  the  Englishman  from  upstairs,  who 
came  in  first. 

"It's  a  fiver  I  want,  Tappan,"  he  said  with  difficulty. 
"I'm  flat  strapped." 

Sammy  looked  at  him  with  a  little  smile  of  sym- 
pathy. 

"Ric's  the  banker,"  he  said  rather  grimly.  "I'm 
broke!" 

There  are  little  circles  beneath  his  eyes,  now,  and  his 
face  is  a  trifle  thin.  He  is  winning  steadily  in  his 
fight,  but  it  is  costing  him  something  to  do  it. 

Pudney  sits  down  nervously. 

"You,  too,  eh ?"  he  says.  And  after  a  silence:  "It's 
the  rent!  By  God,  I  hate  to  ask  you  chaps." 

He  has  borrowed  once  or  twice  before,  this  Pudney, 
and  paid  back  when  he  has  sold  a  story  or  two  to  one 
of  the  cheaper  magazines.  There  is  a  sort  of  freemasonry 
existing  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  this  winter 
which  has  enabled  many  of  these  Bohemians  to  sur- 
vive who  otherwise  must  have  given  up  in  despair. 


THE  BALANCE  257 

"Queer  chap,  Ricorton,"  he  says  now.  "Though  a 
corker!" 

"A  real  friend,"  says  our  Sammy.  "You  don't 
find  them  every  day."  When  was  it  that  he  was  think- 
ing how  few  real  friends  there  were  from  all  his  old 
life  ?  Ric,  and  Carrie—  He  stops  suddenly — to  find 
Pudney  looking  at  him  rather  strangely. 

"I  say,"  the  Englishman  says,  "it's  no  concern  of 
mine,  naturally,  but —  '  he  hesitates,  "I  saw  the 
lady  out  with  the  Irishman  last  evening." 

"Jack  Bantry?"  Sammy  inquires.  He  knows  the 
lady  means  Ruby. 

"Yes,"  Pudney  replies.  He  is  rather  slow  in  all 
his  ways,  this  Englishman,  with  an  impenetrable 
seriousness  that  always  lends  the  impression  of  tragedy 
to  whatever  he  has  to  say. 

S.  Sydney  Tappan  smiles. 

"Ricotti's,  I  suppose?"  he  says.  One  would  im- 
agine Pudney  about  to  disclose  a  murder. 

"Exactly,"  replies  Pudney  heavily.  "Making  a 
cursed  show  of  himself,  too — the  beggar!" 

Sammy  stretches. 

"Well,  what's  the  harm,  Pudney?"  he  asks.  "She 
gets  a  good  time  out  of  it  while  Ric  is  at  the  show.  Let 
her!" 

"The  chap's  after  her,"  Pudney  returns  ponder- 
ously. 

"Trust  Ruby  to  look  out  for  herself,"  our  Sammy 
laughs  lightly.  If  any  one  can  look  out  for  herself  it  is 
Ruby  Williams,  he  thinks. 

There  is  no  smile  on  Pudney's  face,  however,  as  he 
rocks  back  and  forth.  Life  is  deadly  serious  to  him. 
Has  life  in  a  rented  room  in  New  York  induced  the 
point  of  view,  I  wonder? 

This  scene,  and  these  words  of  the  stolid  English- 
man's are  to  come  back  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan  at  one 
of  the  crucial  moments  of  his  life — to  send  the  structure 
of  his  existence  crashing  to  tne  earth.  But  he  has  no 
thought  of  it  yet.  He  will  set  about  the  building 


258  THE  BALANCE 

rather  soon   now,  too.     Fate  is  engaged  to-night  in 
preparing  the  ground. 

"They're  all  human,  Tappan,"  Pudney  says,  "these 
women." 

"Meaning?"  queries  Sammy. 

"All  liable  to  error,"  Pudney  replies.  "I've  seen 
things  one  wouldn't  fancy  as  very  likely — not  in  New 
York  tenements  either!  A  word  to  the  wise,  you  know, 
Tappan.  That's  my  advice  to  Ricorton." 

A  knock  comes  on  the  door. 

"Is  it  Ricorton  now?"  he  asks.  His  nervousness 
has  returned  as  he  contemplates  asking  again  for  a 
loan. 

But  it  is  Ruby  who  enters  in  response  to  our  Sammy's 
cheerful  "hello!" 

"Hello,  everybody!"  she  says  gayly.  "Where's  the 
genius?" 

"He  isn't  in  yet,  Sammy  replies,  as  she  makes  her- 
self at  home. 

She  gives  a  little  whimsical  sigh. 

"I  suppose  we  can't  touch  a  thing  until  he  gets  here, 
then,  or  he'll  fly  off  the  handle.  Gosh!  Nothing  is 
any  good  unless  he  made  it,  Pudney.  You  should  have 
heard  him  on  the  trip.  He's  the  only  real,  good  cook 
in  the  whole  world,  I  guess — if  you  listen  to  what  he 
says." 

Pudney  rises  heavily. 

^"You  won't  be  started  yet  a  while,"  he  says  slowly. 
"I'm  going  for  some  air." 

There  is  something  in  our  Sammy's  face  that  seems 
to  touch  Ruby,  as  Pudney  goes  slowly  down  the  stairs. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  incongruity  of  his  fine  features  against 
the  bright  colour  of  the  cheap  seed  lithograph  which 
decorates  the  wall.  He  always  seems  out  of  place  to 
her  in  these  rooms,  someway.  For  a  moment  the 
little  strained  look  vanishes  from  her  face,  and  a  flood 
of  sympathy  overflows  her  features. 

"It's  not  much  of  a  celebration,  Tappy,  is  it?" 
she  says  compassionately.  Her  emotions  are  always 


THE  BALANCE  259 

quick  to  come  to  the  surface.  She  looks  around  at 
the  room's  cheap  furnishings. 

"It's  rough  on  you,  this  sort  of  thing.  You're  dif- 
ferent, someway.  I'm  used  to  it.  It  comes  sort  of 
natural  to  show  people,  I  guess.  I  wasn't  born  on  a 
grand  piano,  anyway." 

She  stops — then  crosses  to  him  impulsively. 

"It  can't  always  be  this  way,  anyhow,  Tappy.  We'll 
all  be  up  again,  some  day,  just  as  we're  down  now." 

She  feels  a  great  pity  always  when  she  talks  to  this 
man  who  sits  so  silently  at  his  typewriter  all  day. 

To  Sammy  the  whole  thing  does  not  seem  quite 
real,  as  he  looks  around  this  room  to-night.  How  is 
it  that  the  boy  of  Hawthorne  Street  has  ever  strayed 
into  this  furnished  room  of  cheap  New  York?  They 
are  two  worlds,  now,  he  sees  quite  distinctly — this 
world  of  cheap  New  York,  and  the  Melchester  society 
which  he  has  left  forever.  He  can  remember  when  he 
first  felt  the  difference :  when  he  and  Ric  first  took  this 
room,  and  the  girl  giggled  in  the  room  next  door,  and 
Pudney  passed  them  on  the  stairs.  Why,  he  was  only 
a  boy,  then.  He  feels  as  old  as  Methuselah  to-night. 

But  Ric  has  come  in  silently,  now,  his  eyes  blazing 
a  trifle  as  he  stops  to  look  at  Ruby  and  Sammy  by  the 
window.  There  is  a  strange  jealousy  in  his  nature 
that  will  not  allow  this  girl  to  look  at  any  one  else  now 
that  she  has  agreed  at  last  to  become  his.  Perhaps 
that  is  why  she  goes  clandestinely  to  Ricotti's  with 
Bantry. 

Engagements  seem  weirdly  useless  in  these  furnished 
rooms,  encumbrances  upon  the  ground  of  reality. 
That  is  why  they  have  made  no  announcement,  these 
two.  They  will  be  married  as  soon  as  there  is  any 
money  to  allow  of  it.  That  is  the  way  they  phrase 
their  engagement. 

How  different  from  that  interview  our  Sammy  had  so 
long  ago  in  the  den  upon  Washington  Avenue — that 
interview  with  our  old  friend  Mr.  Schroeder.  Why, 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  actually  had  ten  thousand  dollars 


260  THE  BALANCE 

once!  Once  upon  a  time,  would  be  more  the  proper 
way  to  phrase  it,  in  order  to  give  an  adequate  render- 
ing of  the  feelings  the  reflection  always  induces  in  him 
now. 

"Hello,  Ricky,"  Ruby  cries,  running  over  to  the 
musician. 

But  Ricorton  strikes  his  palm  upon  his  forehead 
melodramatically. 

-"Dried  mushrooms,  Tappy!"  he  says.  "I  forgot 
'em!  I'll  start  the  ball  rolling  if  you'll  rush  out  and 
get  'em!" 

As  Sammy  hurries  down  the  stairs  to  the  corner 
delicatessen,  Ric  deposits  his  bundles  upon  the  sagging 
bed  by  the  window.  There  is  a  cloud  upon  his  face, 
as  he  takes  Ruby  by  the  arm. 

"What  were  you  doing  over  by  the  window,  with 
Tappy,  just  now?"  he  asks  sternly.  There  is  no 
humour  in  his  face.  He  has  a  strange  streak  of  master- 
fulness where  Ruby  is  concerned,  a  masterfulness  that 
might  be  almost  cruelty  at  times  were  it  not  for  that 
expression  in  his  face,  an  expression  of  kindness. 

But  Ruby  seems  strangely  out  of  sorts  to-night. 

"Oh,  making  love  to  him,  what  do  you  suppose?" 
she  flashes  back. 

Her  very  lightness  seems  to  irritate  him. 

"Is  there  anything  between  you  two?"  he  asks 
tensely.  "Every  time  I  come  up  here  suddenly,  there 
is  that  damn  silence!" 

So,  beneath  that  easy,  artistic  temperament  there  is  a 
fire  after  all!  The  qualities  of  a  man  cannot  be  gauged 
until  one  has  seen  him  in  love. 

Ruby  laughs  easily,  although  there  seems  to  be  a 
little  odd,  discordant  note  in  it. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  forget  it,  Ric!"  she  says  pet- 
tishly. "Can't  I  talk  to  him?"  It  almost  sounds  like 
Jack  Bantry  in  his  peevish  moods,  she  thinks.  Are 
they  all  alike? 

"It  drives  me  mad  to  think  of  you  with  any  other 
man,  that's  all,"  he  says  in  a  strained  voice. 


THE  BALANCE  261 

There  can't  be  anything  between  her  and  Tappy, 
of  course.  He  is  a  fool  to  suspect  anything.  The 
thought  is  enough  to  drive  him  mad.  He  dismisses  it 
with  an  effort. 

"Let's  get  busy,"  he  says,  kissing  her.  "They'll 
all  be  here  soon  enough  now!" 

Poor  Ric!  He  has  surrendered  his  peace  of  mind  to 
this  girl,  along  with  his  heart.  It  is  just  as  well  that 
Pudney  has  not  confided  his  ideas  in  the  musician. 
Jack  Bantry  might  not  enjoy  his  dinner  quite  as  well, 
perhaps,  if  that  were  the  case. 

Let  us  look  carefully  at  Ruby,  however,  as  she  sets 
the  improvised  table  with  the  cheap  cracked  pottery 
dishes,  the  thick  glasses,  the  tin  knives  and  forks  from 
behind  the  red  curtain  on  the  shelf  beside  the  gasplate. 

Something  seems  to  be  weighing  on  her  mind:  some- 
thing that  drags  her  steps,  slows  her  movements,  as  she 
sets  the  table.  She  steals  little  glances  at  Ricorton's 
back  where  he  stands,  cooking  at  the  gasplate,  in  her 
eyes  a  little  look  of  fear.  It  is  as  she  stands  staring  at 
the  china  a  moment  that  Ricorton  looks  over  his 
shoulder  at  her  and  notices  her  absorption. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asks  quietly. 

She  gives  a  little  start  as  if  she  had  roused  herself 
with  an  effort. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  says  a  little  wearily.  She  sits 
down  and  traces  patterns  on  the  tablecloth.  "I've 
been  wondering  if  we  would  ever  get  married,  that's  all/' 

An  odd  look  of  cynicism  comes  into  Ricorton's  face 
at  the  remark.  He  turns  out  his  pockets  grimly. 

"On  that,  I  suppose?"  he  says  a  trifle  bitterly.  He 
does  not  fancy  the  idea  of  his  helplessness. 

She  is  staring  at  him,  now,  her  face  between  her 
palms,  her  elbows  on  the  table.  He  cannot  remember 
when  he  has  ever  seen  her  so  serious  before. 

"I  don't  care  about  the  money,"  she  says  earnestly. 
"We've  got  to  eat  just  the  same,  single  or  double.  We're 
going  to  be  married  some  time;  what's  the  difference  if 
it's  now  or  then  ? " 


262  THE  BALANCE 

An  almost  humorous  look  comes  over  the  musician's 
face  as  he  mutters,  half  to  himself: 

"Consequences!" 

What  does  she  think  marriage  usually  results  in? 

She  darts  a  tiny  glance  at  him. 

"Kids?" 

He  nods  and  turns  again  to  his  cooking;  an  odd  feeling 
of  delicacy  impelling  him  suddenly  to  do  so. 

A  tiny  flush  steals  into  her  pale  cheeks. 

"What's  the  odds?"  she  says  in  her  low  voice.  She 
swallows  with  a  trace  of  difficulty.  "Gosh,  would  it 
be  any  worse  than  this?"  She  throws  out  her  arm  with  a 
little  unconscious  dramatic  gesture  that  seems  to  in- 
clude the  cheap  furnished  room,  the  iron  beds,  the 
cracked  mirror  in  the  dresser,  and,  outside,  the  damp 
street  and  brick  tenements. 

Ricorton's  jaw  tightens  perceptibly. 

"No,  by  God,  it  wouldn't!"  he  says,  his  eyes  flashing. 
"But  I  won't  always  skulk  here,  Ruby." 

"I  know,"  she  answers  slowly.  She  looks  away  a 
second.  "But  we're  only  young — once,  Ric." 

He  nods  his  head. 

"I've  got  to  pay  Tappy  back,  a  little,  first,"  he  says. 
"After  that,  Rubyr 

She  trembles  a  little  at  his  words.  They  seem  to 
rouse  something  violent  in  her. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it,  Ricky?"  she  cries 
passionately.  "I  can't  wait  forever  because  of 

Tf) 
appy 

She  stops  suddenly,  aware  of  her  vehemence,  while 
Ricorton  gazes  at  her  in  surprise. 

"I  didn't  know  you  felt  that  way — Ruby — about 
it  all,"  he  says  oddly.  A  tiny  fire  comes  in  his  eyes. 
"We  won't  wait — they  can  all  go  hang — before  God, 
they  can " 

"Soon?"  she  says,  going  toward  him  impetuously. 

The  touch  of  her  drives  everything  from  his  brain. 

"Monday,"  he  says  impassionedly.  And  he  takes 
her  in  his  arms  in  a  storm  of  ardour. 


THE  BALANCE  263 

It  was  only  the  sound  of  the  others  on  the  stairs  out- 
side that  saved  the  spaghetti  from  burning  that  even- 
ing. 

It  was  an  odd  supper  they  had  then,  that  supper  that 
celebrated  the  finishing  of  "Doctor  Paulding";  and  not 
much  like  those  brilliant  affairs  the  biography  so  dearly 
loves  to  detail,  those  dinners  of  his  later  life.  It  always 
had  a  tragic  side.  It  was  the  first  failure  the  play  of 
"Doctor  Paulding"  registered.  Of  them  all  only  Ricorton 
grasped  the  greatness  of  what  S.  Sydney  Tappan  had 
done.  It  was  the  first  of  that  long  series  of  disil- 
lusionments  that  lay  along  our  Sammy's  new  path. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  musician  there  would  have  been 
a  cold  silence  when  the  reading  of  the  last  act  was  done. 

"It's  well — tremendous,  Tappy,"  he  said  then 
quietly,  while  the  others  struggled  for  expression  that 
would  not  wound  the  playwright.  I  think  he  knew, 
somehow,  that  he  had  just  listened  to  a  vision. 

In  the  minds  of  the  others,  however,  there  was  a 
welter  of  doubt  and  disappointment  that  seemed  to  hold 
them  dumb.  It  was  partly  because  they  were  looking 
hard  for  fine  parts  for  themselves,  and  there  are  no  fine 
parts  for  Rubys  or  Bantrys  in  "Doctor  Paulding"; partly 
because  they  failed  to  grasp  the  real  drama  the  dialogue 
merely  shadows  and  so  were  disappointed  because  the 
play  seemed  to  lack  so  the  theatric  effects  they  were 
accustomed  to  enjoy.  They  were  like  a  group  of  old 
Shakesperean  tragic  actors  listening  to  a  Shavian 
comedy  in  hopes  of  some  fine  effect  or  scene  where  they 
could  rant.  The  climax  did  not  seem  to  arrive.  It  was 
not  until  they  saw  it  afterward  upon  the  stage  that 
they  realized  the  genius  of  the  thing. 

It  was  an  ironical  Sammy  who  sat  through  the  rest  of 
the  evening  and  listened  to  the  gayety.  Was  this 
evening  but  a  precursor  of  the  fate  of  this  new  play  of 
his? 

It  was  after  the  others  had  gone  that  Ric  told  him  of 
his  approaching  marriage. 

Next  week! 


264  THE  BALANCE 

"That's  fine,  old  man,"  our  Sammy  says,  then. 
"She's  a  brick.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it."  He  stares  a  little 
out  of  the  window.  "You  might  as  well  get  what 
happiness  you  can  from  life." 

He  is  thinking  that  there  does  not  seem  to  be  any 
great  quantity  to  spare. 

Ricorton  voices  his  thought. 

"For  there's  mighty  little  of  it,  anyway,  eh?"  he 
says. 

"Yes,"  says  Sammy  slowly.  "We  should  get  all 
we  can  from  what  comes  to  us." 

Somehow,  happiness  has  always  seemed  to  lie  just 
around  the  corner  from  him.  From  Sylvia,  too,  he 
thinks — from  most  of  the  people  he  has  known.  Does 
it  always  stay  around  the  corner,  he  wonders?  Well, 
Ricorton  will  know  soon  now,  because  he  is  taking  Fate 
by  the  beard  and  can  test  the  old  gentleman's  abilities 
at  dispensing  happiness. 

I  doubt  if  he  would  be  quite  so  certain  of  that,  how- 
ever, could  he  look  in  at  Ricotti's  the  next  evening, 
and  peer  down  the  narrow  corridor  behind  Ruby  and 
Jack  Bantry  as  they  go  out  at  half-past  ten;  and  she 
stands  a  moment  beneath  the  low  doorway  putting 
on  her  gloves  while  he  looks  at  her — in  his  mind  a  mem- 
ory of  the  Halfway  House  and  this  girl's  lips  crushed  to 
his,  of  Ricotti's  and  other  kisses,  of  the  Fontainebleau — 
curse  it,  why  should  she  still  prove  so  attractive  now 
that  he  has  had  his  way  with  her?  Is  it  her  wayward- 
ness, her  fancies,  her  changeability?  He  is  never  quite 
sure  how  she  will  treat  him  even  now:  she  has  been  as 
sulky  as  sin  this  evening,  for  instance. 

"You're  a  funny  one,"  he  says.  "What's  been  into 
you  to-night?" 

She  stares  at  him  irritatingly. 

"Oh,  forget  it,"  she  says  shortly.  "What's  your 
trouble  now?" 

"The  same,"  he  retorts.  "You!"  In  the  half  dark- 
ness she  looks  as  alluring  as  he  has  ever  seen  her. 
What  is  it  about  her  that  fires  him  so? 


THE  BALANCE  205 

"By  God,  you're  pretty!"  he  says  abruptly. 

But  she  draws  back  from  his  attempted  embrace, 
and  stares  at  him  with  eyes  that  seem  to  spurt  fire  in 
the  dark. 

"None  of  that  any  more,  Jack!"  she  says  tensely. 
"I'm  going  to  be  married." 

There  is  a  fury  of  bitterness  in  her  tone  before  which 
he  falls  back  a  step  as  if  it  were  a  physical  force. 

"Married?"  he  says,  stunned. 

"Yes!"  she  retorts  in  a  low  tone. 

"What's  the  joke?"  he  asks. 

"No  joke,"  she  answers  sombrely.  "It's  true. 
What's  it  to  you,  anyway?  You'd  let  me  go  to  the 
devil!  I  know  your  kind." 

She  has  stepped  out  into  the  street  now,  her  face 
showing  strange  and  white  in  the  light  from  the  gas 
lamps  of  lower  New  York. 

There  is  an  ugly  look  in  Bantry's  eyes. 

"You  can't  kid  me,"  he  says. 

"Where's  the  kidding?"  she  says  fiercely. 

He  gives  a  hoarse  laugh,  and  his  voice  becomes  hard 
and  metallic. 

"I  told  you  I'd  fix  you  up  if  anything  happened, 
didn't  I?"  he  says. 

"And  it  has,"  she  answers,  still  in  that  low  tone. 

A  moment  of  silence. 

"Who  are  you  going  to  marry?"  he  breaks  out,  then. 

"Ric,"  she  answers. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  says  ill-naturedly.  He  looks  at  her  a 
moment.  "And  you'd  rather  marry  him,  with  a  lie  in 
your  heart,  than " 

"Who  put  the  lie  there?"  she  flashes  at  him. 

"See  here,"  he  says  in  a  low,  tight  voice.  "Is  this 
thing  a  frame-up  or  isn't  it?" 

"Good  God,"  she  cries.  "If  it  only  were!  I'm  no 
crook!"  she  breaks  out  passionately. 

They  are  by  a  little  iron  fence  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue, 
now,  and  she  leans  against  it  a  moment,  faint. 

"I   didn't   mean   anything — but  fun,   flirting!"  she 


266  THE  BALANCE 

adds  desperately.  "You  know  I  didn't — until  you 
got  after  me.  I  must  have  been  crazy — God,  I  wish 
I'd  never  seen  you!" 

He  stares  at  her  a  moment  uncertainly. 

"You  trust  to  me,"  he  says,  then,  a  curious  look  in 
his  eyes.  "I'll  see  you  through,  all  right!" 

He  puts  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  but  she  breaks  away 
from  his  grasp. 

"Oh,  you've  lied  all  along,"  she  says  dully. 

Of  a  sudden  a  new  array  of  thoughts  spring  up  in 
Bantry's  brain. 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  Ric?"  he  demands  suddenly. 
Perhaps  after  all,  she  is  going  to  tell  the  tall  musician 
the  truth.  If  she  does!  He  trembles  a  little,  inside — 
Ricorton  has  a  strange  look  at  times — a  look  he  does 
not  care  to  speculate  upon  just  now. 
^  "No,"  says  Ruby  ironically.  "I'll  let  you  tell  him." 
She  laughs.  "Gee,  your  life  would  be  worth  about  one 
beer." 

There  is  something  horrible  in  her  mirth. 

"With  your  marriage  thrown  in,"  he  retorts.  She 
cannot  tell  the  truth,  he  reflects  with  a  tiny  feeling  of 
relief,  unless  she  ruins  herself  also. 

"What's  my  marriage  to  me,  now?"  she  asks  bitterly. 
"If  I'd  only  married  Ric  last  summer." 

She  is  silent  a  moment,  reviewing  the  events  of  the 
past  year.  What  a  fool  she  has  been,  drifting  into  this 
sea  of  destruction  without  lifting  a  hand  to  stop  herself 
while  there  yet  was  time. 

Bantry  laughs  a  cynical  little  laugh  as  he  leaves  her 
at  her  door. 

"Perhaps  it  would  have  been  the  same,  married  or 
not,"  he  says  sneeringly. 

And  he  goes  off  down  the  street  toward  Eighth 
Avenue,  leaving  Ruby  to  climb  the  stairs  in  the  dark 
to  her  room,  to  stare  a  long  time  into  her  mirror  there. 

Ric!  What  would  she  have  done  without  him? 
Thank  God  for  him  and  his  kind,  at  least.  She  has 
learned  her  lesson  now,  for  good:  there  will  never  be 


THE  BALANCE  267 

another  Jack  Bantry  in  her  life.  She  will  owe  that  to 
Ric,  at  any  rate. 

Well,  one  Jack  Bantry  was  all  that  was  required  by 
fate  in  her  battle  with  our  Sammy. 

For  this,  although  Ruby  does  not  suspect  it  in  the 
least,  nor  any  other  of  these  roomers  upon  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street — this  is  the  beginning  of  fate's 
comedy  for  whose  heroic  role  our  Sammy  is  being  cast. 
And  Ruby  will  play  opposite  him. 

Our  Sammy  1 

I  wonder  am  I  left  alone  to  thus  call  him,  in  the  room 
on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street,  and  is  he  Sammy  to  no 
one  but  me  ?  I  fear  very  much  that  his  childhood  and 
all  that  Melchester  meant  to  him  have  faded  into  mist 
now,  along  with  his  dreams  of  Carrie — and  only  S. 
Sydney  Tappan,  playwright,  is  left,  staring  from  his 
tenement  window,  thinking  of  Ricorton's  approaching 
marriage,  as  Ruby  gazes  into  her  mirror  in  the  next 
room.  Sammy  has  vanished  now,  forever,  into  the  past; 
and  only  a  rather  thin-faced  man  in  a  threadbare  suit  is 
left — in  his  face  a  vision  of  the  future. 

Will  it  always  be  a  vision,  I  wonder,  and  nothing 
more  ? 


BETTING  forth  a  certain  lack  of 
)^J  humour  connected  with  placing  a 
play,  while  Fate  ties  the  soul  of  its 
author  in  a  second  floor  back  furnished 
room — Giving  some  idea,  too,  of  the  price 
our  Sammy  pays  for  his  triumph  at  the 
Fine  Arts — And  a  new  view  of  an  heroic 
sacrifice  come  home  to  roost — We  give  a 
little  oj  our  sympathy  to  Ruby — And  take 
a  last  view  of  Sammy  as  he  gets  his  second 
prayer. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  WHICH  POVERTY  WINS  ITS  FIRST  VICTORY  OVER 
THEM  BUT  Is  CHEATED  OF  THE  FRUITS  OF  THE 
TRIUMPH  BY  SAMMY 

To  THOSE  of  you  who  have  not  tried  placing  a  play,  I 
wonder  can  I  ever  convey  the  despair,  the  despondency, 
the  hopelessness  which  dogged  the  footsteps  of  our 
Sammy  in  those  next  weeks  when  he  went  from  office  to 
office  with  the  manuscript  of  "Doctor  Paulding"  beneath 
his  arm? 

It  was  not  the  spirit-breaking  ennui  of  outer  offices 
and  anterooms,  where  the  hours  drag  while  within 
mysterious  things  transpire — things  of  which  no  one  of 
the  downtrodden  on  the  chairs  and  benches  outside  has 
any  understanding;  it  was  not  this  with  which  our 
Sammy  had  to  struggle.  His  name  relieved  him  of  all 
that.  It  was  unbelief,  expressed  and  implied,  destruct- 
ive and  ridiculous  criticism,  impossible  suggestions, 
immovable  stupidity,  dull  materialism,  hard  cynicism — 
walls  of  fanatical  prejudices  which  no  ladder  save  that 
of  precedent  could  ever  seem  to  scale;  it  was  these, 
mixed  with  a  fine,  varied  assortment  of  broken  engage- 
ments, bankrupt  promises,  changed  plans,  assorted 
casts,  artistic  rivalries,  and  Thespian  conceit — which 
presented  S.  Sydney  Tappan  with  the  endless  prospect 
of  permanently  dark  hue  that  he  had  in  those  days;  a 
prospect  up  which  he  seemed  to  roll  the  impossibly 
shaped  barrel  of  his  genius  with  only  the  despair  of 
hunger  to  aid  his  determination  that  he  would  push  it 
over  the  rocks  in  the  path. 

It  is  a  striking  testimonial  to  the  fine  fusing  of  this 
new  character  of  our  Sammy's  that  each  failure  but 

271 


272  THE  BALANCE 

seemed  to  strengthen  his  resolve.  When  the  famous 
Morgenstern  suggested  adding  a  dark-faced  comedian 
to  lighten  up  the  tragedy  of  the  last  act,  he  did  not  even 
begin  to  lose  his  temper.  Nor  when  Mason,  of  Charles 
Kirstein,  Inc.  thought  the  addition  of  a  villain  some- 
where imperative,  did  he  do  more  than  smile  faintly 
and  spend  the  afternoon  endeavouring  to  convince  him 
that  the  point  of  the  play,  partially,  was  the  real  lack  of 
personal  blackness  in  the  heart  of  James  Osborne,  the 
closest  approach  to  a  villain  the  play  has. 

There  was  no  point  at  all  to  the  play  so  far  as  Mason 
was  concerned,  however,  so  I  fear  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
time  was  wasted.  Mason  could  never,  even  afterward, 
endure  more  than  two  acts  of  the  thing,  although  he 
tried  manfully  to  sit  it  out  in  order  to  discover  the  secret 
of  its  success  and  copy  it  in  two  acts  with  a  cabaret 
scene  added.  His  stage  managers,  too,  tried,  one  after 
the  other,  to  dissect  it,  but  without  result.  There  was 
not  a  new  trick  of  construction  in  the  whole  affair,  and 
almost  all  the  old  effective  ones  were  left  out!  It  al- 
ways remained  a  mystery  to  half  professional  Broad- 
way. 

It  would  have  been  laughable  to  our  Sammy,  the 
ludicrous  difference  between  the  manner  of  his  reception 
and  of  his  dismissal  from  the  theatrical  offices  along 
Broadway  and  Forty-second  Street,  laughable  had  it 
not  been  so  tragic.  It  is  not  really  amusing  to  return  to 
to  a  bleak,  furnished  room  upon  West  Twenty-ninth 
Street,  with  one  more  of  the  slender  threads  that  bind 
one  to  the  hope  of  success  severed  and  destroyed;  in 
one's  ears,  still,  the  sound  of  sentences  spelling  failure 
and  defeat,  and  in  one's  soul  the  raging  consciousness  of 
superiority  flung  down  and  trampled  by  the  vulgar 
demon  of  mediocrity. 

Like  all  artists,  our  Sammy  had  always  his  share  of 
conceit;  he  never  doubted  for  a  single  moment,  for  in- 
stance, that  he  was  reading  a  masterpiece  to  those  com- 
mercial gentlemen  who  sat  in  the  theatrical  offices  off 
Broadway.  There  is  a  certain  something,  however, 


THE  BALANCE  273 

which  whispers  hauntingly  to  the  artistic  mind  when  the 
God  of  Genius  has  touched  human  handiwork  with  the 
wand  of  His  approval;  and  in  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  ears 
the  whisper  was  always  there  whenever  he  read  "Doctor 
Paulding." 

It  was  why  he  raged  so  in  the  mean  rented  room,  and 
paced  its  narrow  length  so  angrily  those  March  nights, 
and  forgot  to  see  the  humour  of  his  entrances  and  de- 
partures from  the  offices.  It  was  almost  invariable:  he 
entered  the  victorious  author  of  the  "Lady  in  the  Lion 
Skin,"  and  emerged  the  defeated  purveyor  of  "Doctor 
Paulding."  New  York  did  not  want  the  work  of  this 
new  Sammy. 

Well,  the  brains  which  can  estimate  a  play  in  manu- 
script are  almost  as  rare  as  those  which  can  produce  the 
masterpiece.  I  do  not  know  why  S.  Sydney  Tappan  ex- 
pected such  rare  genius  to  spring  up  in  the  first  room 
whose  door  opened  to  his  knock.  Even  if  it  had,  the 
long-continued  menace  of  the  industrial  depression 
would  probably  have  operated  to  keep  "Doctor  Paulding" 
without  a  producer  that  winter  and  spring.  The  man- 
agers were  in  no  mood  for  experiments.  It  is  easy  to  see 
why  art  is  low  when  its  success  must  travel  with  a  dollar 
sign. 

It  was  perhaps  just  as  well  that  S.  Sydney  Tappan  was 
so  taken  up  during  those  days  with  his  attempts  to  place 
his  play,  and  so  had  little  opportunity  for  thinking  of 
other  things.  Once  in  a  while,  when  Ruby  would  be 
spending  the  evening  beside  Ricorton  in  the  picture 
show,  he  would  have  the  room  to  himself,  and  the  silence 
then  would  bring  to  him  a  little  painfully  the  perception 
of  how  alone  he  would  be  after  Ricorton's  marriage.  A 
little  flush  would  come  into  his  face,  too,  when  he 
thought  how  readily  he  had  accepted  Ric's  offer  to  delay 
the  marriage  another  month  so  that  some  of  the  money 
he  had  spent  for  them  all  could  be  repaid.  He  has 
feared  these  evenings.  They  were  not  pleasant  even- 
ings, those  ones  alone;  but  one  must  be  almost  a  fanatic 
to  accomplish  much  in  the  world,  and  Sammy  has 


274  THE  BALANCE 

realized  this  at  last.  He  will  stick  to  "Doctor  Paulding" 
until  every  producer  in  the  country  has  turned  it 
down. 

I  have  never  been  quite  sure  that  it  was  not  unshak- 
able belief  in  the  child  of  his  brain  rather  than  true 
character  that  made  S.  Sydney  Tappan  hang  so  to  his 
idea.  But  the  test  of  the  strong  man  is  that  he  can  be- 
lieve in  the  face  of  a  doubting  world.  It  was  not 
ignorance,  at  least,  that  kept  Sammy  from  faltering.  He 
had  progressed  a  long  way  since  he  first  went  in  business 
with  the  long-vanished  Mr.  Pike.  It  was,  perhaps,  a 
good  thing  that  his  character  came  to  him  a  trifle  be- 
lated :  what  a  tragedy,  had  he  believed  in  Pike's  plumb- 
ing that  way!  Persistence  can  be  carried  too  far. 

In  it  all,  however,  there  was  a  certain  belief  in  the 
star  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  which  allowed  him  to  shut  his 
eyes  to  the  future,  and  spend  each  day  upon  the  placing 
of  the  play.  It  could  not  possibly  yield  him  money  for 
some  months  after  acceptance,  and  yet  he  never  con- 
sidered the  advisability  of  letting  it  rest  while  he  se- 
cured some  position  that  would  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether. It  is  true  that  he  knew  nothing  to  which  he 
could  turn  his  hand.  Even  if  he  had,  I  doubt  if  he 
would  have  let  the  knowledge  influence  his  decision. 
There  seemed  to  be  but  the  one  dominant  idea  in  his 
mind,  and  its  overshadowing  power  drove  all  the  others 
out.  There  would  be  time  for  positions  afterward. 
I  have  heard  people  say  since  that  he  could  get  nothing  to 
do,  so  peddled  "Doctor  Paulding."  The  opposite  was 
the  truth. 

It  would  be  long  after  midnight  many  nights  in  the 
room  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  before  he  and  Ri- 
corton  turned  in. 

"It's  got  the  punch  in  it,  Ricky,  I  tell  you!"  he  would 
cry,  pounding  the  table  with  his  fist  as  loudly  as  he 
dared  because  of  the  other  lodgers.  He  never  seemed  to 
lose  his  enthusiasm  for  it. 

It  is  an  odd  thing,  too,  and  one  that  speaks  volumes 
for  the  boy  to  whom  environment  once  was  everything, 


THE  BALANCE  275 

that  through  all  the  months  of  poverty  he  did  not  seem 
to  alter  a  hair. 

It  was  different  with  the  tall  musician.  His  glasses 
of  ale  and  porter  grew  stronger  and  more  numerous  in 
the  corner  saloon  nights,  when  he  and  Sammy  and  Ruby 
would  stop  on  the  way  back  from  the  picture  show — 
until  economy  demanded  and  received  the  tin  pail  he 
used  later,  and  carried  to  their  rooms  because  of  the 
extra  expense  of  buying  over  the  bar. 

Nights,  then,  there  were,  after  Ruby  had  gone  to  her 
room,  and  only  Sammy  and  Ricorton  remained  talking 
until  late  in  the  night,  when  the  musician  gradually 
stifled  his  brain  and  mind  with  the  heavy  drink,  and 
went  to  his  bed  with  his  failure  and  all  the  dull  drab  of 
his  poverty-stricken  existence  drowned  in  the  liquor. 
I  do  not  think  S.  Sydney  Tappan  had  ever  the  heart  to 
blame  him,  however :  Ricorton  had  no  "Doctor  Paulding" 
to  urge  him  on  to  the  future  as  had  our  Sammy,  and  the 
sting  of  his  beggary  and  failure  killed  even  the  happi- 
ness of  his  approaching  marriage.  What  could  such  a 
marriage  be?  At  night,  when  Ruby  had  gone  to  her 
room,  and  there  was  left  to  Ricorton  only  the  prospect 
of  lying  awake  in  his  ill-shapen  bed  with  his  thoughts,  I 
do  not  wonder  that  the  sad-faced  musician  drugged  him- 
self into  forgetfulness  and  quick  slumber.  I  only 
wonder  that  all  the  poor  do  not  die  in  drink.  Perhaps 
such  things  are  the  reason  why  every  corner  in  New 
York  has  its  saloon. 

To  S.  Sydney  Tappan  there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of 
frightful  emphasizing  of  the  lesson  of  "Doctor  Paulding" 
in  poverty's  slow  murder  of  the  genius  that  had  flared 
once  in  Ricorton's  soul  back  in  the  days  of  the  Dutch 
Reformed  Church — flared,  alas,  and  gone  out.  The  mu- 
sician never  mentioned,  now,  his  opera  which  Vienna 
was  to  produce  some  day.  His  whole  existence  seemed 
centred  upon  the  hatred  he  had  for  the  cheap,  flashy 
music  he  pounded  out  in  his  picture  show;  upon  the 
tenderness  with  which  his  approaching  marriage  filled 
his  still  sensitive  heart;  and  upon  that  odd,  doglike  faith 


276  THE  BALANCE 

he  had  in  the  ability  of  Tappy — that  loyalty  which 
nothing  could  shake. 

Nights  when  even  the  tenements  were  still,  except  for 
some  distant  quarrel  and  the  sound  of  cars,  he  would 
realize  his  selfishness  in  thinking  always  of  his  own 
affairs,  and  would  try  clumsily  to  close  the  gaping 
wound  in  our  Sammy's  heart. 

"You're  always  welcome,  as  long  as  we've  got  even 
two  rooms,  Tappy,"  he  would  say.  "I'm  just  taking 
Ruby  into  our  little  circle,  too,  that's  all!  There's  no 
one  can  ever  take  the  place  of  your  smiling  face!" 

Alas,  I  fear  Ricorton  was  a  good  deal  of  a  senti- 
mentalist in  those  days:  our  Sammy's  face  was  far  from 
a  smiling  one.  I  wish,  though,  that  those  critics  who  in 
after  years  saw  the  weak  character  around  his  mouth 
could  have  looked  in  on  him  that  winter. 

There  was  no  weakness  in  the  face  of  S.  Sydney  Tap- 
pan  as  he  climbed  the  stairs  at  the  close  of  each  day  of 
failure  and  rebuffs,  and  set  about  washing  the  few  dishes 
and  utensils  of  their  meals,  while  he  set  his  teeth  and 
laid  his  plans  for  the  next  day's  campaign.  There  was 
in  it  the  granite  strength  of  purpose  of  the  pioneer  and 
frontiersman  who  pushes  ever  onward  the  fringe  of 
civilization,  winning  a  wilderness  for  a  future  nation. 
Sammy  was  of  the  new  frontiersmen  who  are  felling  the 
tangled  growth  of  poverty,  that  rank  vegetation  which 
bids  fair  to  threaten  now  all  the  fair  acres  the  early 
woodsmen  cleared.  He  was  of  that  ever-growing  band 
of  spirits  who  are  translating  the  winning  of  the  West 
into  the  exalted  spirit  of  the  East;  that  band,  uncom- 
prehended  in  great  measure  by  the  Mr.  Schroeders  of  an 
older  generation,  uncomprehended  by  the  men  of  the 
wide  spaces  of  the  plains  and  mountains,  but  working 
steadily  and  faithfully  at  their  self-appointed  task  in  the 
dark  smoke-hung  districts  of  the  industrial  East. 

A  boy,  the  West  of  our  America!  Vigorous,  healthy, 
fine-minded,  open-hearted !  And  yet  a  boy,  nevertheless, 
in  great  part;  with  the  problems  and  questions  of  the 
childhood  of  nations  in  his  head. 


THE  BALANCE  277 

A  man,  the  East!  With  all  the  weaknesses  and 
knowledge  of  manhood;  the  grave  problems  of  adoles- 
cence, the  realization  of  past  mistakes — errors  now 
buried  beyond  recall,  and  susceptible  only  of  slow  re- 
trievement;  but  with  them,  too,  the  awakened  soul  of  a 
man,  flashing  out  from  a  thousand  minds  that  new  spirit 
of  manhood,  of  brotherhood,  which  is  the  new  spirit  of 
America. 

Yes,  our  Sammy  was  of  these  elect,  even  in  his  barren 
room  in  New  York,  as  he  washed  the  cheap  dishes  in  the 
sink.  He  had  the  vision  of  the  new  spirit  in  his  soul. 
Paul  had  set  out  upon  the  way  to  Athens  and  his 
mission. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Christy  &  Co.  sent  for  him 
and  secured  his  picture,  done  by  their  best  photographer, 
for  inclusion  in  their  dramatic  section  with  Sylvia 
Tremaine.  A  conservative  magazine,  our  friend 
Christy's,  and  so  properly  some  few  months  behind  the 
times.  Sammy  was  no  longer  able  to  frequent  the 
cheapest  restaurants  when  his  picture  came  out  just 
after  Sylvia's.  He  was  eating  off  the  little  black  table 
at  the  foot  of  the  iron  beds. 

It  was  then,  too,  that  Carrie  in  her  Settlement  room 
on  the  lower  East  Side  saw  it  and  wept  for  happiness. 
The  caption  of  "Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  was  over  it  but 
the  look  around  his  mouth  was  there,  and  she  knew  his 
eyes  were  asking  for  her.  I  am  glad  there  was  no  one  there 
to  see  her  hand  fly  to  her  throat — except  the  old  bed- 
ridden woman  across  the  street.  Even  she  was  dimly 
stirred  by  the  old  thoughts  the  gesture  evoked.  So, 
there  was  love  in  the  world,  after  all — it  always  brought 
the  picture  of  a  thrilling  heart,  that  gesture !  From  that 
day,  too,  Carrie  knew  that  she  would  seek  out  Sammy 
and  see  him  once  more.  He  was  not  married,  the 
article  said. 

I  do  not  know  just  when  it  was  that  Sammy  first 
visualized  the  industrial  depression  as  a  monster  chok- 
ing out  the  life  of  mankind.  He  always  felt  dimly  its 


278  THE  BALANCE 

intimate  relation  to  the  beast  of  poverty  against  which 
he  tilted  in  "Doctor  Paulding."  But  perhaps  it  did  not 
come  to  him,  full-grown  and  a  monster,  until  he  saw  the 
light  that  once  was  Ricorton  gradually  failing  before  the 
iron  pitilessness  of  the  monster's  advance;  saw,  too,  the 
fading  colour  of  Ruby  and  the  look  of  despair  in  her 
eyes — recognized,  obscurely,  the  silent  disappearance  of 
Bantry  without  a  word  except  perhaps  a  final  quarrel 
with  Ruby;  said  good-bye  to  Pudney,  and  stood  apathet- 
ically upon  the  dock  in  Hoboken  giving  thanks,  dully, 
that  the  heavy  Englishman  had  made  enough  from  a 
lucky  story  to  get  him  steerage  back  to  London;  saw 
about  him  in  the  streets  the  evidences  of  the  grip  of 
hunger  upon  the  city,  in  the  drawn  faces  of  the  lank- 
haired  women,  the  sodden  men,  the  shrill  children  about 
the  brick  churchyard  on  Ninth  Avenue  beside  the 
elevated. 

God !    Was  this  humanity  as  Heaven  intended  ? 

I  cannot  help  exclaiming  even  now  over  the  cleverness 
with  which  the  Gods  of  Circumstance  set  the  stage  for 
our  Sammy.  I  could  almost  accuse  them  of  sending 
that  depression  and  its  visualization  just  for  him,  were  it 
not  that  the  tempest  would  be  so  out  of  proportion  to 
the  result  achieved.  While  I  was  engaged  in  making 
accusations  I  think  I  would  hold  them  guilty,  too,  of  the 
failure  of  the  strike  in  Melchester,  and  of  the  subse- 
quent removal  of  John  Rouse  to  the  storm  centre 
around  the  garment  makers'  strike  off"  the  lower  East 
side  in  New  York — were  it  not  that  there  were  so  many 
other  agitators  the  I.  W.  W.  could  have  sent  to  achieve 
the  desired  effect  who  would  have  suited  those  Gods 
just  as  well.  I  have  never  been  able  to  shake  off  en- 
tirely the  idea  that  they  were  all  but  types,  these  people 
who  took  the  minor  parts  in  the  drama  of  S.  Sydney 
Tappan's  life — typifying  life,  their  characters  and 
names  quite  immaterial  to  the  Gods  who  contrived  all 
the  effects. 

They  were  not  types  to  Sammy,  however,  who  knew 
and  struggled  with  them.  It  was  only  the  relentless 


THE  BALANCE  279 

force  of  poverty  that  he  felt  always  and  forever  as  a 
type:  a  type  of  personal  monster,  its  hand  ever  raised 
against  humanity's  aspirations.  He  saw  it  in  the  crowds, 
the  saloons,  the  slums,  the  strikers,  the  stevedores,  the 
working  girls,  saw  it  and  wondered  how  it  could  have 
escaped  his  notice  all  those  years  of  his  life  before 
"Doctor  Paulding"  came  into  his  mind.  He  was  always 
prone  to  see  the  larger  side  of  things,  however,  to  pass 
over  with  too  cursory  a  glance  those  details  that  are  life 
to  most  of  us — the  details  he  did  see,  the  dramatic,  the 
romantic  things  of  existence — which  is  why  his  youth 
did  not  see  this  beast  of  poverty  plainly  before  now. 

Nights  when  he  and  Ruby  picked  their  way  through 
the  greasy  streets  that  led  to  the  picture  show  where 
Ricorton  worked,  the  whole  squalid  misery  of  it  all 
seemed  to  strike  him  in  the  face  with  the  force  of  a 
human  blow:  a  blow  intensified  a  hundredfold  when  he 
saw  the  pale  face  of  the  musician  at  the  banged-out 
piano  beneath  the  screen. 

I  suppose  perhaps  a  third  of  the  audiences  to  which 
Ricorton  played  those  nights  knew  Carrie  by  sight  at 
least,  and  could  have  told  Sammy  where  to  find  her,  had 
he  known  she  was  in  New  York.  Trouble,  however, 
seems  to  have  a  strange  reticence  which  prevents  it  al- 
ways from  making  itself  known  until  there  is  no  alter- 
native. It  is  singular  to  consider  that  had  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  confided  his  desires  to  those  weary,  ill-fed 
audiences  they  could  have  given  him  what  he  most  de- 
sired without  a  moment's  delay.  The  Settlement  for 
which  Carrie  worked  lay  about  three  blocks  away,  and 
there  was  scarce  a  doorway  in  those  tenements  which 
had  not  framed  her  figure  once  at  least.  A  poorer 
section,  this,  than  the  one  in  which  Sammy  is  dragging 
out  his  existence.  There  are  no  furnished  rooms  here 
because  every  foot  of  space  is  already  taken,  and  board- 
ers are  literally  what  the  name  implies — ladies  and 
gentlemen  with  a  board  to  sleep  upon  instead  of  to  eat 
from  as  was  once  the  case. 

It  killed  the  last  vestige  of  hope  that  Carrie  ever 


280  THE  BALANCE 

entertained  of  saving  the  poor,  when  she  first  realized 
the  misery  and  squalor  that  was  crowded  into  that 
narrow  island  between  the  rivers.  Charity  and  Settle- 
ments, Y.  W.  C.  A.'s  and  model  tenements  seemed  all 
swallowed  in  one  gulp  of  the  beast's  great  jaws.  And 
yet  she  saw  more  plainly  than  ever  the  crying  need 
for  them  all.  First  Aid,  she  always  phrased  it — First 
Aid  until  the  doctor  of  Society  could  arrive.  What  a 
case  that  first  city  of  the  western  continents  presented 
to  her  eyes,  still  fresh  from  Melchester  and  its  malady  so 
unacute  as  yet  compared  to  the  desperate  condition  of 
this  great  metropolis  of  millions.  Here  was  work  to 
her  hand  for  a  lifetime! 

There  was  a  certain  satisfaction  to  her  in  the  thought. 
A  life  of  crowded  days  and  busy  nights  does  not  allow 
of  too  much  reflection;  and  our  Carrie  is  but  a  girl  be- 
neath the  shield  of  her  career.  She  has  to  strive  hard 
sometimes  at  night,  as  in  her  Settlement  room  at  Mel- 
chester, to  forget  the  life  she  might  have  had  with 
Sammy  had  things  been  different  with  them;  to  forget 
the  dream  faces  of  the  children  she  has  wanted  so  badly 
all  her  life;  to  forget  the  little  ageing  look  of  her  mother 
as  she  still  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  the  old- 
fashioned  dining-room  on  Washington  Avenue,  and 
sees  plainer  with  every  day  the  blunder  her  life  has  been; 
to  forget — well,  her  life,  I  fear.  Her  life  has  always 
been  Sammy. 

The  teas  and  dinner  dances  and  beautiful  clothes  of 
society  in  Melchester  seldom  occur  to  her  now,  except 
to  bring  back  to  her  the  scenes  of  her  romance  with 
Sammy.  Thank  Heaven,  at  least  she  was  never 
willing  to  sell  herself  for  fine  clothes !  That  temptation 
has  been  spared  her — and  clothes  and  fine  things  mean 
less  than  ever  to  her  now.  It  is  only  when  she  thinks  of 
Sammy  that  she  wishes  for  some  of  the  exquisite  things 
the  windows  on  Fifth  Avenue  display.  She  would  like 
to  be  quite  beautiful,  should  she  ever  meet  him  again, 
and  her  father  has  left  her  to  her  own  financial  devices 
for  some  two  years  now. 


THE  BALANCE  281 

I  doubt  very  much,  however,  Carrie,  if  the  women 
and  children  of  that  part  of  the  East  Side  ever  noticed 
the  plainness  of  your  clothes.  You  are  a  millionaire 
duchess  in  their  hearts,  just  as  you  once  dreamed  of 
being  long  ago  on  the  ballroom  floor  of  the  Washington 
Club,  with  Sammy  approaching  down  the  waxed  floor 
to  claim  you  for  a  dance.  How  many  years  ago  was 
that?  Thank  Heaven  for  our  youth,  at  least!  Even 
an  old  melody  can  bring  it  all  back  to  Carrie. 

There  has  been  a  rising  tide  of  anger  this  winter  and 
spring  on  the  East  Side  as  wages  are  reduced,  and  shops 
and  factories  and  workrooms  close  down,  and  the  in- 
dustrial depression  makes  good  its  threat  of  hunger. 
The  streets  are  filled  with  muttering  men  and  small 
knots  of  harsh-faced  women  and  girls,  in  their  eyes  the 
throttling  fear  that  comes  from  utter  despair.  They 
have  no  control  over  their  destiny,  these  people,  and  they 
have  seen  starvation  before.  Before  them,  too,  there 
is  no  vision  such  as  Sammy  has,  no  high  spirit  of  the 
soul  such  as  the  Settlement  house  welcomes  evenings 
when  perhaps  Tschaikowsky  or  Katherine  Breshkovsky 
or  any  of  the  kindred  souls  of  the  great  cause  of  liberty 
in  the  world  sit  around  the  fire  and  stir  their  hearers 
with  the  story  of  martyrdom. .  These  starving  workers 
on  the  streets,  talking  liberty  and  suffrage  and  revolu- 
tion and  dynamite  in  a  hundred  accents  have  no  flame 
from  God  to  light  their  way.  They  are  simply  waiting; 
waiting  to  die  in  their  rooms,  or  in  the  river.  They 
have  reached  the  Promised  Land  of  the  West  and  it  has 
spurned  them. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  John  Rouse  made  a  record  for 
additions  to  the  I.  W.  W.  ranks  that  winter.  No  won- 
der, too,  that  to  most  of  them  the  higher  justification  of 
his  creed  fell  on  deaf  ears  and  only  the  red  riot  of  his 
speech,  the  crash  of  his  dynamite  resounded  in  their 
brains.  A  choice  to  these  people  so  far  as  they  can  see 
— death  or  dynamite!  That  dynamite  acquires  a  less 
formidable  look  under  such  circumstances  is  not  sur- 
prising. People  do  not  throw  dynamite  for  fun;  and 


282  THE  BALANCE 

the  humour  of  life  is  decidedly  lacking  this  year  of  the 
depression  in  New  York. 

The  muttering  grew  audibly  louder  to  Sammy's  ears, 
too,  as  he  went  to  and  from  the  picture  show  those 
damp  nights  of  early  spring;  the  groups  seemed  larger 
and  more  threatening.  That  there  could  be  anything 
prophetic  for  him  in  it  all  never  entered  his  mind,  of 
course.  It  was  not  until  the  blow  fell  that  the  stage 
stood  out  vividly  to  him,  of  a  sudden,  and  he  saw  the 
heroic  role  there  waiting  for  him  to  play  it.  Even 
then  had  it  been  a  role  of  circumstances  alone  he  would 
never  have  played  it.  It  was  why  the  Gods  fired  that 
heroic  character  of  his  with  an  idea.  It  was  the  com- 
bination for  which  he  sold  his  name. 

He  never  forgot  the  incidents  of  that  night  in  after 
years.  They  seemed  seared  upon  his  memory  as  with  a 
branding  iron.  He  could  always  repeat,  even,  all  that 
Ricorton  said,  every  word  the  driver  of  the  taxicab 
uttered,  hear  again  the  low  roar  of  the  mob,  the  crackle  of 
the  police  revolvers,  and  the  crash  of  window  panes  as 
the  strikers  hurled  their  paving  stones  into  the  advanc- 
ing cordon  of  detectives,  threw  wild,  and  demolished 
the  store  fronts  behind  the  plain-clothes  men,  scattering 
the  crowd  left  and  right.  . 

At  the  time  he  was  conscious  only  of  his  own  blind 
fury  against  the  taxicab  driver  who  could  demand  the 
price  of  his  fare  in  advance  while  Ricorton  lay  upon  the 
curbing,  his  face  to  the  night  sky,  his  head  cut  deep 
with  a  bloody  gash  from  one  of  the  paving  stones.  To 
his  dying  day  Sammy  never  forgot  that  he  and  Ruby 
between  them  could  muster  but  twenty-seven  cents; 
and  the  taxicab  drove  off  down  the  wet,  slippery  street 
shining  yellow  in  the  light  from  the  street  lamps,  leav- 
ing Ruby  on  her  knees  in  the  gutter,  Ricorton 's  head 
in  her  lap,  and  himself  blind  with  rage  against  a  world 
of  wolves;  while  down  the  street  the  strikers  still  fought, 
routed  now  by  mounted  police,  the  shrieks  of  women 
sounding  from  the  open  windows  of  the  tenements,  and 
in  the  tiny  lulls  of  the  struggle  the  oaths  of  maddened  men. 


THE  BALANCE  283 

One  hour  it  was  before  the  ambulance  men  laid  the 
musician  on  the  sagging  iron  bed  in  the  West  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  room  and  withdrew,  leaving  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  and  a  white-faced  girl  beside  him — a  girl 
who  stared  with  dilating  eyes  at  the  chalky  face  of  the 
wounded  man,  and  continually  sought  the  surgeon's 
bandage  with  her  nervous  hands. 

"More  shock  than  anything,"  the  young  surgeon  had 
said  briefly. 

A  contusion  of  the  brain. 

Sammy's  heart  sank  when  he  heard  it.  A  diet  of 
ale  and  porter  and  starvation  are  not  good  helps  for 
combating  death. 

In  Ruby's  mind,  at  first,  the  hushed  voice  of  self 
shrank  back  before  the  overwhelming  question  of 
Ricorton's  life.  Not  until  the  first  light  of  morning 
was  at  hand,  and  the  musician  had  not  recovered  con- 
sciousness yet,  but  still  lay  in  that  heavy  stupor,  did 
it  begin  to  seem  possible  to  her  that  he  could  ever  die 
while  he  lay  so  close  to  them  in  this  room.  It  was  then, 
as  the  roofs  of  the  tenements  grew  gray  in  the  dim 
morning  light  and  the  cold  dawn  filled  the  furnished 
room,  showing  the  hollows  beneath  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
eyes,  and  her  own  white,  strained  face  looking  out  at 
her  from  the  cracked  mirror,  that  the  spectre  of  her  own 

Eosition  rose  up  to  haunt  her  and  strike  a  chill  of  fear  in 
er  heart :  a  chill  that  froze  her  brain  with  the  realization 
of  her  certain  doom  should  Ricorton  never  speak  again. 
How  instantaneously,  then,  her  world  narrowed,  as 
with  a  closing  shutter,  until  it  consisted  only  of  Utica 
and  her  mother's  mean  house  on  the  side  street,  and  this 
cheap   room  on  West  Twenty-ninth   Street  with  the 
gaunt  form  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan  beside  the  bed.     These 
two  her  only  hope! 

Utica!  As  in  a  flash  of  the  shutter  she  saw  its  doors, 
yes,  even  her  mother's  door  closed  to  her  then.  Those 
women  of  her  mother's  world  would  understand  only 
how  best  to  trample  her  underfoot.  There  would  be 
no  second's  rest  for  her  in  the  streets  of  that  town  once 


284  THE  BALANCE 

the  truth  were  known.  She  could  see  and  hear  the 
whole  thing  there,  now,  with  her  child  still  seven 
months  unborn. 

Money !  If  only  she  had  some  money  to  figure  out  a 
way!  At  the  thought  the  hopelessness  of  her  situation 
rushed  over  her  afresh.  As  well  cry  for  the  moon  as 
for  money  upon  West  Twenty-ninth  Street.  There 
would  be  no  money  for  her.  Bantry,  now — he  had  had 
money  put  away  some  place;  and  had  vanished 
silently  and  left  her  helpless,  .in  hell.  There  would  be 
no  money  from  any  place  now.  God!  If  Ric  should 
not  live!  In  all  the  world  there  would  be  no  soul  to 
turn  to  except  this  hollow-eyed  playwright  who  watched 
beside  the  bed  of  his  friend.  On  Tapp^y  would  hang  her 
fate  should  the  tall  musician  never  rise  again  from  that 
sagging  cot. 

I  think  her  solution  came  to  her  as  the  kindly  old 
doctor  from  down  the  street  examined  Ricorton,  and 
she  lay  on  the  bed  in  her  hallroom  and  stared  dully  at 
the  ceiling,  listening  for  the  words  from  the  next  room; 
came  with  little,  ugly  steps  into  her  soul,  with  evil, 
twisted  face  and  malevolent  grin,  and  whispered  to  her 
the  way  put  for  her.  I  do  not  think  she  even  hesitated 
rat  listening,  either,  unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken. 
A  woman  fighting  for  her  life,  this  Ruby  Williams,  in 
herback  room  with  its  stringy  curtains  and  torn  shade. 

That  she  has  struck  by  accident  upon  the  one  weapon 
that  can  yield  her  victory,  she  does  not  realize  as  the  old 
doctor  shakes  his  head  and  speaks. 

"No  hope,  I  fear,  unless  he  rallies  soon  now,'*  he  says, 
blowing  his  nose  loudly,  as  he  looks  at  the  still  figure 
on  the  bed.  Who  was  it  blew  his  nose  like  that, 
Sammy  wonders,  dully?  Oh,  yes,  Uncle  Richard  from 
Washington,  at  the  Dobbs' house,  when  his  mother  died. 
He  has  never  forgotten  it. 

The  doctor  hesitates  at  the  door. 

"In  fact,"  he  adds  slowly,  a  certain  pity  in  his  eyes 
for  the  tall,  thin-faced  man  who  is  holding  the  door  cour- 
teously, "in  fact,  I  fear — no  hope  at  all — good-bye " 


THE  BALANCE  285 

And  he  has  gone,  with  no  thought  of  payment  in  his 
mind,  leaving  S.  Sydney  Tappan  gazing  in  unbelief  at 
the  figure  on  the  bed.  A  figure!  Is  it  no  longer  Ricor- 
ton  already,  he  thinks,  with  a  little  chill  around  his  heart  ? 
Is  Ric  to  leave  him  after  all  they  have  endured  together? 

In  rapid  succession  there  run  through  his  mind  the 
little  old  Dutch  Reformed  choir  room  in  Melchester,  and 
the  musician  sitting  in  the  dull  light  from  the  cloudy 
panes;  the  smoking-room  on  the  Pullman  as  the  train 
flashed  through  the  night  toward  New  York;  that  first 
day  they  rented  this  room  in  which  he  stands;  the 
rehearsals  in  Lyric  Hall;  the  night  in  the  City  Theatre 
on  Fourteenth  Street,  and  Ric  tapping  loudly  for 
Bantry's  cue;  the  day  at  the  station  when  he  left  for  the 
Coast  trip;  the  letters;  and  their  reunion  at  the  Half- 
way House  and  Sylvia's;  and  then  the  "Rose  of  Asia," 
and  the  disappointment  they  drowned  at  Ricotti's 

And  then  this  depression,  and  the  misty  night  wind 
on  the  cobbles  where  Ric  lay  with  his  head  in  Ruby's 
lap  beneath  the  yellow  street  lamp.  Before  God,  is 
Ric  going  to  leave  him,  too,  as  all  the  rest  have  done  ? 

He  has  forgotten  Ruby  entirely  until  she  steals  in 
and  glances  fearfully  at  the  figure  that  breathes  so 
heavily  now  upon  the  bed.  Is  it  sorrow  for  Ricorton 
that  seems  to  twist  her  face  so? 

"I  wonder,"  she  says  in  a  whisper,  "will  he  live?" 

She  has  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  as 
Sammy  answers.  It  is  only  for  a  second  that  he  has 
hesitated  and  glanced  out  the  window. 

"I  think — not,"  he  says  in  a  queer,  dry  voice  which 
he  does  not  recognize  himself.  The  truth  must  come 
soon  now,  anyway,  to  the  girl  upon  the  floor.  Some- 
how, even  the  cheerfulness  seems  to  have  faded  from 
the  carpet. 

He  never  forgot  afterward  the  single  exclamation  that 
escaped  her  at  his  remark. 

"God!"  she  said.  And  in  the  sound  there  were  the 
accents  of  the  damned  crying  out  to  heaven  for  help. 

"I  think  He  must  be  all  there  is  left  for  us,"  he  says 


286  THE  BALANCE 

unsteadily.  He  knows  now  that  Ricorton  will  not 
live. 

"And  no  marriage — now,  for  me,"  Ruby  says  pain- 
fully. 

I  have  always  wondered  why  the  remark  did  not  jar 
harshly  upon  our  Sammy's  consciousness.  It  was  not 
quite  the  natural  thing  to  say  just  then.  I  suppose, 
however,  he  was  not  apt  to  be  critical  when  Ricorton 
lay  dying  before  him. 

"Don't  say  it,  yet,"  he  says  oddly.  It  seems  like 
taking  even  the  last  chance  from  the  dying  man,  he 
thinks,  and  consigning  him  to  death,  this  considering 
him  as  dead  already. 

But  this  is  Ruby's  chance,  now,  and  she  will  take  it; 
the  Gods  have  played  into  her  hands  at  last. 

"I've  got  to  say  it,"  she  says  tensely,  a  little  shudder 
of  horror  around  her  heart.  "I've  got  to  be  married, 
Tappy!" 

She  breaks  off  and  looks  the  other  way,  as  the  reali- 
zation of  her  meaning  sinks  gradually  into  Sammy's 
brain,  and  understanding  fills  his  eyes.  He  thought  it 
humiliation,  always,  and  not  the  hot  hate  of  herself 
which  had  surged  suddenly  into  her  soul  and  made 
her  turn  away. 

''You  mean "  he  begins  slowly,  uncertain  how  to 

phrase  what  he  is  trying  to  say. 

But  she  interrupts  him.  She  will  get  it  over  and 
done  with,  even  if  it  spoils  her  chance.  Only  the  sense 
of  her  desperate  necessity  is  driving  her  on  now. 

*^Yes,v  she  says  hoarsely,  ";t's  happened — why 
wouldn't  it  here — 

But  Sammy  is  thinking  only  of  the  anguish  that  must 
have  been  Ricorton's  as  he  was  struck  down  upon  the 
street. 

''  Ric ! "  he  says.  In  his  mind  there  is  no  blame  for  any 
one.  It  is  only  in  books  that  such  things  do  not  happen. 

In  Ruoy  there  is  a  relief  that  floods  her  soul.  He  has 
assumed  it  was  Ric  who  has  ruined  her,  without  any 
question ! 


THE  BALANCE  287 

"Don't  blame  him,"  she  says  in  a  low  tone.  "We're 

all  human.  I  didn't  know And  now "  She 

looks  down  at  the  form  of  Ricorton.  "I  wish  it  had 
been  me  they  hit " 

Sammy  turns  away,  sick.  Is  there  no  end  to  misery 
in  the  world  ? 

"Don't,"  he  says  hoarsely. 

"Why  not?"  she  says  desperately.  Can  she  go 
on  with  this,  she  wonders?  There  is  no  choice,  how- 
ever, she  must.  "You  know  the  world — you  know 
what  it  means  for  me — what  chance  has  a  woman  like 
me  got — now?" 

Our  Sammy  stares  out  the  window. 

"Something  can  be  done,"  he  says  grimly.  There  is 
fight  in  him  yet. 

"On  twenty-seven  cents?"  cries  Ruby  relentlessly. 

With  the  words  there  come  to  Sammy  again  the 
cobbles  and  the  night  wind,  the  taxicab  and  the  shout- 
ing strikers.  This  is  what  it  means  to  be  poor.  Sud- 
denly that  monster  of  the  depression  rises  before  his 
vision,  full  grown  this  time,  crushing  a  world  of  men 
beneath  its  horrible  weight,  reaching  into  the  villages, 
the  towns,  the  cities,  the  slums,  the  saloons — striking 
down  the  world  of  labour,  of  industry,  of  art,  shop- 
girls, actors,  clerks,  stevedores,  strikers.  This  is  the 
monster  of  poverty  taken  active  form  and  name  and 
out  upon  its  hunt  for  human  souls,  the  monster  against 
which  he  has  sworn  his  oath;  America  his  world  of 
Pharisees,  and  the  destruction  of  the  monster  his 
Parsifal,  his  Symphony  Eroica,  his  Thermopylae,  his 
crucifixion. 

No  paving  stone,  but  Poverty,  has  killed  Ricorton 
in  the  damp  streets  of  New  York — and,  unsatisfied, 
reaches  out  now  for  this  girl,  this  sweetheart  of  his, 
and  gloats  over  the  weakness  of  humanity  which  aids 
its  work  of  ruin ! 

But  it  shall  not  succeed  over  her,  too! 

"No,  by  God !"  he  cries;  and  to  his  astonishment  cries 
it  aloud. 


288  THE  BALANCE 

His  mind  is  made  up  now.  Of  what  use  all  that 
fine  writing  in  "Doctor  Paulding"  if  its  author  shrinks 
from  the  test  himself?  Our  Sammy  has  caught  the 
hero's  cue  in  this  forsaken  furnished  room  on  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street  and  is  about  to  stride  out  upon 
the  stage.  All  the  setting  of  his  life  is  darkened  in 
the  dull  light  of  the  room,  and  only  the  hero's  place  in 
the  spotlight  stands  out  clear  and  distinct.  One  by 
one,  he  sees  now,  all  the  people  of  his  life  have  fallen 
away.  The  stage  is  quite  empty  except  for  these  two, 
himself  and  Ruby — and  the  Monster  waiting  for  its 
cue  in  the  wings. 

"I'll  see  you  through,  just  as  Ric  would  have,"  he 
says  now.  The  flame  is  shining  in  his  eyes.  Poverty 
has  won  its  last  victory  over  them. 

In  Ruby  there  is  a  hatred  of  herself  that  will  hardly 
allow  her  to  speak. 

"You  mean,"  she  says  almost  in  a  whisper,  "you  will 
marry  me?"  It  does  not  seem  possible  she  is  really 
saved. 

But  Sammy,  as  he  nods  his  head  in  assent,  is  not 
looking  at  her.  He  has  put  his  ear  to  the  struck 
man's  chest  and  is  staring  now  at  the  inanimate  form 
of  what  was  once  Ricorton. 

"He's  dead,"  he  says  simply.  "Perhaps  God  has 
been  saving  me  for  this!" 

I  do  not  think  any  one  in  the  room  would  have 
thought  it  anything  except  an  echo — but  it  is  Ruby, 
by  the  window,  who  has  whispered  half  to  herself: 

"God!" 

It  is  the  tone  that  cries  aloud,  it  is  not  an  echo. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  WHICH   BANTRY  CONGRATULATES   HIMSELF,  AND 

CARRIE  SEES  A  NEW  PLAY  BY  S.  SYDNEY  TAPPAN  AT 

THE  FINE  ARTS 

IT  is  an  odd  thing  how  the  aspect  of  our  actions 
alters  when  seen  through  the  glass  of  Time.  S.  Sydney 
Tappan's  marriage  to  Ruby  began  first  to  present  a 
different  face  to  him  when  he  realized  in  the  room  on 
East  Sixtieth  Street — where  he  had  moved  to  escape 
the  memories  West  Twenty-ninth  evoked — that  it 
is  not  possible  for  us  to  put  away  at  will  all  that  our 
lives  have  been.  It  has  only  been  for  one  brief  exalted 
day  that  he  could  exist  as  the  nameless,  unconnected 
rescuer  of  Ruby.  He  is  S.  Sydney  Tappan  of  Mel- 
chester  again  now.  The  strands  of  his  life  run  on  as 
before — to  run  on  until  the  pattern  of  his  career  is 
finished.  He  is  S.  Sydney  Tappan — and  married. 

He  has  had  his  hour  of  anguish,  however,  and  con- 
quered for  all  time,  that  evening  after  Ruby  went 
back  to  Utica  and  the  mean  side  street,  upon  what 
little  there  was  still  due  from  Ricorton's  salary  at  the 
picture  show;  went  back  with  S.  Sydney  Tappan's 
name,  and  in  her  soul  a  vast  relief  that  yet  seemed  to 
fade  moment  by  moment  before  a  great  hatred  of 
herself.  Once  she  was  out  of  danger  she  began  to  see 
what  manner  of  man  it  was  who  had  done  this  for  her, 
and  all  that  was  good  in  her  rose  up  desperately  and 
cried  out  for  the  truth.  It  is  strange  to  consider  that 
at  the  moment  when  she  thought  her  peril  was  past 
she  was  but  beginning  her  fight  against  that  real 
danger  which  grew  stronger  and  stronger  until  she 
could  no  longer  resist  it — her  contempt  for  herself. 

289 


290  THE  BALANCE 

That  hour  of  our  Sammy's  anguish  came  while  he 
packed  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street;  when  he  saw 
himself  for  a  brief  space  as  he  was;  playing  that  fine 
part  at  Williams,  in  his  letters,  dazzling  Mr.  Schroeder 
with  the  brilliance  of  -his  success  as  a  captain  of  in- 
dustry, lionizing  himself  in  the  theatre  at  Melchester 
and  the  Schroeder  drawing-room  while  the  audience 
applauded  wildly  for  Sylvia  Tremaine;  and  selling  his 
own  happiness,  now,  for  a  final  opportunity  to  play 
the  role  of  the  hero,  a  hero,  too,  who  could  never  be  ap- 
plauded by  any  one  except  himself.  It  was  as  if  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  some  one  else — some  one  for  whom 
his  heart  cried  out — watching  the  rough  box  in  the 
Potter's  field  as  it  hid  Ricorton  from  his  sight  for  the 
last  time,  picking  his  silent  way  with  Ruby  afterward 
through  the  wet,  misty  streets  of  New  York  to  the 
office  where  he  gave  her  his  name  and  sacrificed  him- 
self with  it — his  great  recompense  her  salvation. 

I  think  he  crowded  a  lifetime  of  heartache  into  that 
anguished  hour  alone  as  he  packed  into  the  round  trunk 
he  had  brought  from  Melchester — he  could  remember 
it  in  the  old  attic  on  Hawthorne  Street  against  the 
eaves — as  he  packed  in  it  their  music  and  threadbare 
clothes,  and  all  the  hundred  and  one  things  even  their 
poverty  had  accumulated;  packed  in  it,  too,  though 
his  eyes  refused  to  see,  those  half-torn  letters  of  Carrie's. 
It  was  only  then  that  his  heart  failed  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  he  stood  in  the  gaslight  overwhelmed  by 
despair.  He  pinned  his  soul  in  that  brief  second  to 
the  soiled  manuscript  of  "Doctor  Paulding"  as  it  lay 
upon  the  dresser. 

It  never  seemed  to  him,  afterward,  as  if  it  could 
have  been  only  an  hour  that  he  spent  in  the  old  furnished 
room.  It  was  his  mute  testimony  to  the  fierceness  of 
the  conflict  he  had  won. 

It  was  not  until  he  sat  through  those  evenings  upon 
East  Sixtieth  Street,  however,  that  he  saw  with  a 
strange  coldness  around  his  heart  that  his  test  had  in 
reality  but  begun;  that  his  sacrifice  must  be  an  ever- 


THE  BALANCE  291 

lasting  one,  a  lifelong  concealment  of  the  truth,  if  it 
was  to  avail  Ruby  at  all;  that  the  realization  of  the 
hope  of  his  life  must  always  bear  with  it  the  bitter- 
ness of  this  fettering  secret — a  secret  to  last  always 
because  of  the  hopelessness  of  ever  explaining  it.  His 
conception  that  night  of  Ricorton's  death — the  con- 
ception he  had  somehow  had  of  himself  as  doing  this 
thing  and  then  ceasing  to  be,  had  lost  the  glamour  now 
that  made  the  act  possible  of  performance  even  to 
our  Sammy.  Our  lives  live  with  us  still,  binding  us 
inexorably  to  the  great  woof  of  the  past.  He  must 
pay  now,  during  his  life,  for  the  gilded  sacrifice  he  has 
made  that  night  in  his  fight  against  poverty.  This 
secret  of  his  and  Ruby's  will  be  always  with  him  to 
build  its  wall  between  him  and  human  intimacy.  It 
was  his  one  hour  of  self-pity. 

His  great  consolation  after  it  was  that  he  had  saved 
Ruby.  The  thought  stood  him  in  good  stead  for  a 
long  time.  That  in  the  final  reckoning  each  of  us 
can  save  only  himself,  he  did  not  see  for  many  years. 
It  was  Ruby  who  saw  it  first;  and  when  she  saw  it, 
recognized  that  she  had  but  exchanged  one  hell  for 
another,  with  now  the  fuel  of  a  second  wrong  added 
to  the  flames.  One's  conscience  does  not  remember 
the  conventions  of  society:  it  is  the  true  inwardness  of 
our  actions  that  sticks. 

It  was  Hartmann,  oddly  enough,  who  first  told 
Sammy  of  a  possible  chance  for  "Doctor  Paulding," 
and  lent  him  the  fifty  dollars  that  finally  saved  him. 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  did  not  notice  the  little  look  of 
hostility  with  which  the  actor  first  greeted  him;  a 
look  that  faded,  however,  as  his  keen  vision  took  in 
the  telltale  shininess  of  the  playwright's  coat,  and  the 
dark  hollows  underneath  his  eyes — faded,  and  vanished 
entirely  when  he  learned  that  Sammy  had  neither  seen 
nor  heard  from  Sylvia  Tremaine  for  many  months. 
There  was  always  a  little  jealousy  upon  his  part  because 
of  Tappan's  influence  with  Sylvia  Tremaine. 

A  shrewd  business  man,  this  Hartmann.     He  has 


292  THE  BALANCE 

been  camping  in  the  Adirondacks  this  winter  until 
the  depression  blows  over.  He  has  enough  money 
now  so  that  depressions  do  not  worry  him,  although 
he  must  still  work  for  a  living.  He  does  not  spend  his 
money  easily  upon  Broadway.  Few  people  do  who 
earn  it  there. 

He  claps  S.  Sydney  Tappan  on  the  back  in  the 
Lambs'  Club  where  he  has  steered  him  for  a  drink. 

"A  play,  eh?"  he  says.  This  Tappan  has  genius, 
he  is  quite  certain. 

A  ghost  of  a  smile  comes  to  Sammy's  lips.  It  is  a 
long  time  since  he  has  smiled. 

"No  'Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin,'  this  time,  either!" 
he  says  quietly. 

A  remembrance  of  past  conversations  with  Sylvia 
comes  to  Hartmann's  mind. 

"A  play  on  poverty,  isn't  it?"  he  asks.  "Sylvia 
told  me  a  little  about  it." 

The  hope  that  has  flashed  in  Sammy's  eyes  dies  out 
again.  Sylvia  has  told  the  actor  about  his  "message" 
most  likely,  and  the  play  is  damned  with  him  already. 
Nothing  kills  quicker  with  the  profession  than  this 
handicap  of  purpose.  Is  it  because  gentlemen  with  a 
purpose  seldom  take  the  trouble  to  know  anything 
else  ? 

"A  play  first,  though,  Hartmann,"  he  says  quickly. 

The  actor  nods  understandingly.  This  chap  is  no 
amateur.  He  has  been  through  the  mill.  Any  one 
has  who  has  finally  weathered  a  production  with 
Sylvia  Tremaine  in  the  leading  role. 

"Who's  got  the  thing  now?"  he  inquires. 

"Yours  truly,"  Sammy  answers  with  a  little  smile. 
And  he  tells  Hartmann,  a  little  satirically,  a  few  of  his 
experiences,  particularly  the  famous  Morgenstern's 
dark-faced  addition  to  the  last  act. 

The  actor  makes  a  little  face  of  disgust.  It  is  partly 
because  he  considers  no  one  except  himself  a  competent 
judge  of  a  play. 

"Burlesque!"  he  says  vindictively.     "That  is  where 


THE  BALANCE  293 

Sam  Morgenstern  got  all  his  ideas — burlesque — that's 
all  he  knows." 

It  is  when  he  has  read  the  manuscript  through  in 
Sammy's  room  on  Sixtieth  Street  that  he  springs  up 
excitedly. 

"Why,"  he  says,  "this  is  Cromwell's  stuff!  I'll  give 
you  a  card  to  him — you  know — the  Englishman,  he's 
up  on  Seventy-second  Street  off  the  park.  It  may  be 
just  what  he  wants — sounds  just  like  his  stuff." 

Cromwell,  S.  Sydney  Tappan  thinks.  Oh,  yes,  the 
English  actor-manager.  He  has  not  realized  that  he 
was  in  New  York;  although  he  remembers  now  that 
he  has  taken  up  a  residence  here. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  yourself?"  he  asks  the 
actor. 

Hartmann  stares  at  the  manuscript  thoughtfully. 
It  does  not  do  to  be  too  enthusiastic  about  these  things; 
no  one  under  heaven  can  tell  about  a  play. 

"Some  changes,  of  course,"  he  says  cautiously. 
"But  it's  good,  Tappan,  as  a  whole — distinctly  good." 

In  his  heart,  however,  as  he  goes  down  the  street 
alone  toward  the  Lambs'  Club  there  is  a  mighty  envy. 
If  he  is  any  judge  the  thing  is  tremendous.  How  is  it 
that  some  chaps  seem  to  have  all  the  luck?  Why,  he 
himself  could  have  written  it  had  he  gotten  the  idea! 
Well,  I  fear  all  great  plays  seem  easier  to  write  after  they 
are  done,  Mr.  Hartmann.  Our  Sammy  has  not  had 
all  the  luck;  he  has  paid  for  the  sincerity  of  "Doctor 
Paulding"  with  the  anguish  of  his  soul. 

It  was  some  two  weeks  after  he  left  the  manuscript 
with  Cromwell  that  the  tall,  broad-shouldered  actor 
sent  for  him. 

"Ah,  Doctor  Paulding,"  he  calls  out  cheerfully  from 
upstairs,  "be  seated  and  I  will  be  down  directly." 

It  is  not  an  excited  Sammy,  nevertheless,  who  seats 
himself  in  the  room  below.  He  can  remember  the  time 
when  he  would  have  walked  upon  the  clouds  at  such  a 
prospect  of  selling  a  play  as  Cromwell's  note  has  im- 
plied. He  knows  now  the  uncertainty  that  attaches 


294  THE  BALANCE 

to  everything  theatrical;  he,  too,  has  learned  patience 
since  he  came  to  New  York.  Good  things  do  not  come 
to  any  of  us  in  a  hurry.  So  he  is  not  excited. 

He  is  only  wondering  if  this  youngish-looking  man  can 
ever  take  the  part  of  Doctor  Paulding  successfully,  as 
John  Cromwell  comes  down  the  old  darkwood  stairs 
and  greets  him  in  the  rather  formal  drawing-room. 
His  deep  voice  and  fine  inflection  bespeak  only  the 
cultured  actor,  with  no  trace  of  a  traditional  English 
accent.  There  is  a  strange  look  in  the  eyes  of  this 
John  Cromwell,  however;  introspective,  our  Sammy 
thinks,  and  yet  alive  with  life.  It  is  almost  as  if  he 
sees  and  enjoys  some  other  view  over  the  heads  of  the 
people  of  this  world  into  some  Golden  Gate  beyond;  a 
view  the  mundane  dwellers  on  this  sphere  do  not  ob- 
serve. He  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  elect  whom  Sammy 
knew.  He  always  felt,  too,  as  if  he  had  always  known 
the  man  before  a  sentence  had  passed  between  them. 
It  might  have  been  the  contact  of  their  kindred 
souls. 

"I  like  your  play,'*  Cromwell  says,  as  he  comes  in, 
"provided  I  have  read  it  aright.  Come  up!" 

Upstairs  beside  the  fire,  in  the  room  of  ancient  design 
and  furnishing  with  its  plain  blue  rugs  and  armour- 
studded  walls,  that  John  Cromwell  calls  his  study,  the 
actor  speaks  his  mind. 

"You've  two  dramas  in  it,  haven't  you?"  he  asks 
intently.  He  stares  into  the  fire.  "It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  I  sensed  always  a  second  drama  ofF  stage,  the  real 
drama  of  forces  which  the  action  only  suggests,  hints 
at,  finally  brings  out  on  the  stage  before  our  eyes  in 
the  moment  your  James  Osborne  staggers  back  from 
the  mob  outside  the  Settlement.  I  sense  always  a 
mounting  menace  off  stage,  and  Doctor  P3ulding 
struggling  with  the  weak  weapons  of  his  love  and 
example  to  ward  off  the  catastrophe!  Quite  in  vain. 
The  rest  do  not  see  until  the  real  tragedy  bursts  in  upon 
the  stage.  Is  that  it?" 

Sammy  nods  his  head.     Here  is  a  man. 


Sammy  s  faith  faltered  as  he     .     .     .     saw  that  vast 
audience  stream  in  from  the  rainswept  street" 


THE  BALANCE  295 

"You  are  the  first  man  who  has  sensed  it,'*  he  says 
quietly.  "  The  others  have  just  seen  a  play." 

He  does  not  know  of  the  strange  conviction  which 
possessed  Ricorton  the  night  of  the  reading  upon  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street. 

Cromwell  smiles. 

"They  will  understand  when  the  footlights  shine  on 
it,  Tappan!  No  imagination,  that's  the  explanation. 
You  have  a  play  of  character,  a  psychological  play  if 
you  will,  there  are  no  coincidences,  no  circumstances, 
no  claptrap  to  make  the  drama.  The  forces  which 
mould  the  characters  are  inexorable.  Where  did  you 
come  by  the  thing?" 

"Ibsen,  partially,"  Sammy  replies.  He  knows  the 
actor  means  where  did  he  come  by  the  constructive 
plan.  "I  simply  took  the  higher  social  forces  where  he 
took — say,  heredity  in  Ghosts.  Doctor  Paulding,  in 
that  Settlement  scene,  might  be  listening  to  the  mob  in 
the  street,  as  Mrs.  Alving  to  Regina's  voice  from  the 
dining-room,  and  say  with  her,  'Ghosts!'  The  ghost  is 
that  of  the  dead  past  industrial  wrong " 

"Poverty!"  cries  Cromwell.  "Exactly  my  impres- 
sion of  it!" 

In  his  mind  there  is  a  strange  exultation.  This  man 
who  sits  before  him  seems  to  his  mind  to  have  made  a 
play  that  flashes  with  golden  gleams  of  higher  truth 
glimpsed  fitfully  through  the  cloud  of  dull  human  ac- 
tion. It  has  been  his  purpose  he  sees  now.  He  is 
almost  a  hypnotist,  this  Cromwell,  in  his  notions  of 
how  a  play  should  be  staged,  and  it  is  four  years  since 
he  has  had  anything  to  work  with,  against  which  he  did 
not  inwardly  rebel — and  this  play  seems  made  for  him, 
at  last.  A  Thespian  with  the  prophet's  soul  is  what  John 
Cromwell  is,  his  only  fault,  perhaps,  a  vision  which  can 
sometimes  forget  the  hour's  need  in  the  future's  neces- 
sity. He  sees  mankind  a  trifle  too  much  in  the  mass, 
and  is  thinking  of  the  larger  victory  while  he  passes 
the  old  woman  on  the  corner  whom  Carrie  will  always 
see. 


296  THE  BALANCE 

It  is  perhaps  the  best  way  to  demonstrate  his  mind  to 
simply  record  the  fact  that  though  he  took  "Doctor 
Paulding"  that  afternoon,  he  yet  let  its  author  go  out 
the  door  without  even  the  purchase  price  of  a  dinner 
in  his  worn  pocket.  Sammy  was  in  the  last  extremity. 
Hartmann  lent  him  fifty  dollars;  it  was  the  fifty  dollars 
that  saved  him. 

It  was  a  tribute  to  the  changed  estimate  of  success  our 
Sammy  had  that  he  never  even  calculated  in  advance 
the  possible  receipts  from  the  Fine  Arts  Theatre.  He 
was  conscious,  of  course,  that  John  Cromwell  was  no  sure 
financial  success  such  as  Sylvia  Tremaine  would  always 
be.  Most  of  these  ventures  in  the  Fine  Arts  do  not 
make  world  record  runs.  And  yet  he  never  considered 
the  money  he  might  receive  beyond  the  fact  that  he 
would  no  longer  starve.  In  spite  of  her  peeping  through 
the  blinds,  I  am  not  sure  but  what  Mrs.  Schroeder 
would  still  call  him  fool.  He  is  not  a  fool,  however,  I 
will  venture  to  say;  fools  do  not  write  "Doctor  Paul- 
dings." 

I  wonder,  what  she  would  have  said  had  she  known 
that  John  Cromwell  shut  himself  up  from  all  callers 
those  summer  months,  denying  himself  to  every  one 
except  those  connected  with  the  future  production  of 
the  play,  and  spent  the  time  with  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
living  Doctor  Paulding's  life  as  Sammy  saw  it;  and 
later  as  John  Cromwell  saw  it,  even  clad  in  the  same 
clothes  the  audience  saw  that  memorable  night  of 
the  production — I  wonder  would  she  have  called  him 
fool? 

Personally  I  have  a  strong  suspicion  that  it  was  the 
reason  why  the  character  of  Doctor  Paulding  secured 
the  hold  upon  the  English-speaking  world  it  did.  John 
Cromwell  acted  with  his  brain  as  well  as  with  his  body; 
and  behind  him  was  the  brain  of  Sammy.  Perhaps  it 
was  only  when  the  immediate  financial  reward  was  not 
evident  that  Mrs.  Schroeder  called  people  fools. 
Sammy  was  never  a  fool  to  her  after  the  second  year  of 
"Doctor  Paulding's"  run. 


THE  BALANCE  297 

I  think  it  was  the  blood  of  generations  of  marriage- 
reverencing  ancestors  that  first  made  Sammy  uncon- 
sciously think  that  Ruby  should  be  present  at  that 
first  night  at  the  Fine  Arts.  But  it  was  quickly  swal- 
lowed in  the  perception  of  her  loneliness  once  the  idea 
occurred  to  him.  She  never  knew  why  it  was  that  he 
suddenly  began  to  write  to  her  faithfully  twice  a  week. 
He  doubled  the  number  of  letters  because  he  had  not 
thought  of  it  before.  It  was  only  after  it  had  been 
settled  that  she  would  come  that  he  saw  how  impossible 
it  would  have  been  to  have  left  her  out.  Ladies  in 
Utica,  even  when  they  live  upon  mean  side  streets,  do 
not  stay  quietly  at  home  while  their  husbands  have  first- 
night  productions  at  the  Fine  Arts  Theatre  in  New  York. 
It  was  one  of  the  first  lessons  he  had  in  the  new  aspect 
of  that  marriage  and  its  secret. 

Strange,  queer  letters  they  were  that  Ruby  wrote 
back  to  him,  with  an  odd  undercurrent  of  despair  that 
he  could  not  understand  until  he  thought,  with  a  little 
curse  at  his  stupidity,  of  what  Ricorton  must  have 
meant  to  her. 

She  was  hating  Utica,  too,  along  with  herself,  had  he 
known  it,  in  those  days  of  spring  when  she  looked  out 
at  the  elms  along  the  streets,  and  waited  for  the  post- 
man to  bring  her  letters  from  New  York.  The  be- 
draggled, rose-coloured  couch  in  the  dining-room  beside 
the  high  stove  seemed  unbearable  in  the  hours  when 
dusk  crept  along  the  muddy  streets  and  wet  sidewalks; 
and  the  farmers'  wagons  went  by  on  their  way  to  the 
valley,  and  the  old  woman  from  three  houses  down  who 
came  in  to  get  the  dinner  talked  interminably  through 
the  kitchen  door  until  the  old-fashioned  dark  clock 
struck  six,  and  her  mother  came  in  from  the  store.  S. 
Sydney  Tappan  was  sending  her  money  then,  from 
the  advance  payment  John  Cromwell  had  made 
him. 

There  must  have  been  a  sense  of  doom  in  her  heart, 
moreover,  that  day  she  looked  through  the  geranium- 
choked  window  of  the  parlour,  and  saw  Jack  Bantry 


298  THE  BALANCE 

swinging  down  the  street  staring  at  the  houses.  She 
never  knew  afterward  just  how  he  discovered  that  she 
was  there;  whether  he  was  just  playing  in  Utica  and 
remembered  the  address,  or  whether  he  got  it  from  the 
theatrical  agency  in  New  York  and  got  off  the  train  to 
see  her  as  he  passed  through.  That  home  is  the  place 
where  they  must  take  us  in  when  trouble  overcomes  us, 
and  that  this  was  once  her  home,  may  have  been  all 
the  clue  the  Irishman  needed. 

She  never  forgave  the  garrulous  old  woman  what  she 
said  at  the  door.  Days  afterward  she  remembered  the 
first  words  that  Bantry  used  before  he  discovered  her 
new  name;  and  she  could  never  quite  rid  herself  of  the 
idea  that  possibly  he  had  come  with  the  intention  of 
saving  her  at  the  last  from  the  ruin  he  had  brought  upon 
her;  and  that  the  news  of  her  new  position  brought  back 
on  him  his  ugly  hatred  of  Ricorton  and  S.  Sydney 
Tappan,  and  put  in  his  mind  that  idea  of  revenge  and 
profit  which  finally  destroyed  her. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Tappan?"  he  said,  then,^with  an  odd 
inflection  in  his  voice  that  made  Ruby  in  the  parlour 
shiver.  "  'Faith,  I'll  see  her.'", 

I  wonder  was  it  her  knowledge  of  the  real  character 
of  the  man  that  made  her  experience  such  a  feeling  of 
revulsion  as  he  came  to  greet  her  in  the  dim  parlour, 
or  was  it  merely  a  prevision  of  the  danger  his  knowledge 
would  always  hold  for  her?  She  realized  afterward  that 
she  had  lost  her  battle  before  it  had  begun.  She  un- 
consciously lowered  her  voice  at  his  first  words  so  that 
the  old  woman  in  the  kitchen  might  not  hear  what  they 
said,  and  the  Irishman  knew  at  once  that  she  was 
afraid  of  him,  from  that. 

"And  why  not  Mrs.  Ricorton?"  he  asked  impudently, 
as  he  seated  himself  in  the  old  rocker.  . 

"  Ric's  dead,"  Ruby  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

Her  tone  called  up  the  manhood  that  there  was  in 
Bantry  and  silenced  him  for  a  brief  second.  She  must 
have  loved  the  musician  after  all.  Then  the  odd  puzzle 
of  the  affair  smote  him  sharply. 


THE  BALANCE  299 

"So,  you're  married  to  Tappan,  eh?"  he  said  un- 
believingly. 

"Yes,"  she  said  defiantly.  After  all,  what  business 
was  it  of  this  Irishman's  now? 

"Guff,"  he  said  flatly.  "When?"  He  was  not  sure 
that  he  believed  it,  although  in  the  depths  of  his  con- 
sciousness there  was  something  that  whispered  to  him 
that  it  had  an  oddly  truthful  ring. 

"A  month  ago,"  she  answered,  a  slight  metallic  ring 
to  her  voice.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  sound  from 
the  old  woman  in  the  kitchen,  now — was  the  old  fool 
listening,  as  she  had  suspected  ?  Hurriedly,  in  a  panic, 
she  searched  her  mind  for  some  plausible  accounting  of 
this  marriage.  What  a  fool,  when  she  had  had  all 
these  weeks  to  think  of  some  reasonable  explanation 
which  would  satisfy  this  man  before  her!  Why  could 
she  not  have  anticipated  this? 

"Ric  was — killed — in  the  strike,'*  she  said  slowly. 

Light  flooded  Bantry's  brain. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "And  Tappan  married  you?"  He 
had  read  of  that  strike  in  Boston  where  he  had  gone  to 
make  sure  of  a  summer  job. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ruby.  Somehow  the  whole  thing  seemed 
so  plain  and  bald,  put  in  the  light  this  conversa- 
tion placed  it.  It  did  not  seem  possible  the  man 
before  her  could  escape  the  implication  of  those  simple 
questions  and  answers.  What  could  she  add  to  soften 
the  effect  ? 

"On  what?"  the  Irishman  queried  with  his  ironic 
smile.  There  was  something  strange  here,  something 
hidden.  He  felt  it  in  the  girl's  tone  of  voice,  in  the 
little  side  glances  she  threw  toward  the  kitchen  door. 
"Is  Tappan  here?"  he  added.  There  was  something 
about  the  tall,  gaunt  playwright  that  made  him  feel 
outclassed,  cheap. 

^"No,"  Ruby  replied.     "He's  in  New  York.     John 
Cromwell  has  taken  'Doctor  Paulding.' ' 

Bantry  sniffed. 

"Cromwell's  a  pompous  ass,"  he  observed  sneeringly. 


300  THE  BALANCE  . 

"He'll  kill  what  Tappan  hasn't  with  that  stuffy  dia- 
logue." 

Inside  him,  however,  a  bitter  jealousy  rises  up  for  a 
moment.  This  girl,  whom  he  has  twisted  around  his 
finger  until  now  and  the  despised  dreamer  of  those 
cheap  furnished  rooms  are  somehow  creeping  ahead  of 
him.  A  play  at  the  Fine  Arts  and  perhaps  money, 
while  he  still  waits  for  employment  in  the  offices! 
Cromwell  commands  a  certain  highbrow  following,  so 
that  Tappan  will  be  sure  of  some  money  at  least. 
And  there  are  always  apelike  managers  to  run  after  a 
playwright  of  the  Fine  Arts.  What  luck  that  such  a 
play  should  happen  to  strike  the  fancy  of  the  would-be 
great  Cromwell!  A  gullible  public,  too,  that  may 
swallow  the  whole  thing,  and  think  it  fine  because  it  is  so 
rotten  dull.  What  luck! 

The  evident  slur  upon  S.  Sydney  Tappan  stirs  Ruby 
violently,  much  to  her  surprise.  She  has  not  realized 
before  her  new  estimate  of  the  man. 

"You  leave  Tappy  alone,"  she  says,  her  eyes  flashing. 
"  Stick,  tQ  Cromwell  if  you  want  to  throw  your  mud." 

Bantry  gives  a  little  whistle. 

*  Sudden  affection,"  he  says  sneeringly. 

"As  sudden  as  I  please,"  she  cries  hotly.  "What 
business  is  it  of  yours  ?  *'  She  is  angry  now,  and  does 
not  care  what  the  old  idiot  in  the  kitchen  may  hear. 
There  is  a  fire  in  her  soul  for  the  man  who  has  saved 
her,  and  she  rises  up  in  his  defense. 

Bantry 's  eyes  narrow  in  an  ugly  fashion  as  he  says 
before  she  can  speak: 

"Who  has  a  better  right?"  There  is  a  meaning  look 
that  goes  with  the  words  which  turns  Ruby  cold. 

"That's  over,"  she  says  in  a  low  voice. 

"Is  it?"  he  says.  "I'm  not  so  sure!"  He  stares  at 
her  with  his  old  bold  look.  He  has  no  means  of  know- 
ing the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  her  soul  since 
he  saw  her  last.  She  has  always  been  contrary  like 
this.  Behind  that  cold  exterior  perhaps  she  is  on  fire 
already. 


THE  BALANCE  301 

It  is  with  a  vast  surprise  that  he  sees  her  rise,  and 
throw  open  the  door. 

"That's  over,  I  said,"  she  says  in  a  strange,  bitter 
voice.  "I've  got  a  husband  now.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

He  cannot  dodge  the  implication  of  her  action. 

"You  mean  I'm  not  wanted  here?"  he  says  danger- 
ously. There  is  an  astonishment  in  his  voice  that  he 
cannot  conceal,  an  astonishment  mixed  with  hurt  van- 
ity. He  cannot  believe  the  charms  of  Jack  Bantry  do 
not  make  him  welcome  anywhere. 

In  her  eyes,  now,  however,  there  is  a  look  that  makes 
him  uncomfortable  of  a  sudden. 

"You  heard  me,"  she  retorts,  her  tone  one  of  steel. 
"I've  got  a  husband." 

Suddenly  the  quick  Irish  temper  of  the  man  flames 
out.  She  is  showing  him  the  door!  She  must  have 
forgotten  with  whom  she  is  dealing. 

"By  God,  then,  where  is  he?"  he  says  furiously,  "I 
want  to  see  him."  Is  this  all  a  bluff?  Or  is  she  telling 
the  truth?  Who  knows?  Why  should  Tappan  have 
married  her?  Did  the  fool  do  it  to  save  her  from  dis- 
grace— could  he  have  been  such  an  idiot  as  that?  Or 
did  this  girl  take  him  in  with  her  passionate  allurement 
and  keep  the  real  truth  from  him  ?  The  two  of  them 
must  have  been  alone  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street 
after  the  musician  died 

"See  him,  perhaps,  and  talk  over  old  times — old 
troubles — eh?"  he  adds  insinuatingly. 

With  a  certain  wild  exultation  he  sees  that  he  has 
struck  upon  some  kind  of  a  mark  in  the  way  Ruby 
goes  pale  of  a  sudden  and  stares  at  him  as  if  struck 
dumb.  By  God,  she  cannot  make  a  monkey  out  of 
him! 

"How's  that?"  he  asks  sneeringly.  "A  sort  of  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street  reunion!"  He  will  follow  up  this 
thing,  now.  She  has  never  told  Tappan  the  real  truth, 
he  will  wager  his  last  dollar.  That  is  the  reason  for 
those  glances  toward  the  kitchen,  her  low  tone  of  voice, 


302  THE  BALANCE 

and  all  the  rest  of  it.  She  has  never  told  any  one  the 
truth ! 

Surmise  becomes  conviction  as  he  sees  terror  gradually 
dawn  in  her  eyes,  and  her  breath  grow  short. 

"Perhaps  we'll  be  closer  friends  than  ever,"  he  says 
mockingly.  "With  such  things  in  common  as  we  have, 
you  and  I?"  His  tone  of  voice  is  menacing.  "Who 
knows?  I'll  see  you  in  New  York." 

And  he  goes  out  the  door  and  down  the  street,  with 
eyes  that  still  flash  the  conflict  and  his  victory.  He  has 
the  whiplash  over  this  girl  now,  he  thinks  grimly,  and 
one  way  or  another  it  shall  yield  him  something.  He 
has  heard  before  in  New  York  of  those  fortunate  people 
who  "have  something"  on  some  one  else.  Well,  by  God, 
he  himself  has  something  now. 

The  hours  our  Sammy  spent  in  the  Fine  Arts  Theatre 
those  weeks  of  the  rehearsals  of  "Doctor  Paulding"  were 
the  first  happy  ones  he  had  spent  since  that  night  in  Mel- 
chester  when  he  walked  past  the  darkened  theatre  and 
saw  upon  the  signboard  "  The  Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin  " — a 
play  by  S.  Sydney  Tappan.  The  ideals  of  the  Mr. 
Schroeders  of  the  world  have  gone  down  in  ignominious 
defeat  now,  and  in  Sammy's  soul  there  is  the  con- 
sciousness of  fine  effort  finely  directed,  the  sense  of 
accomplishment  smoothing  the  obstacles  in  the  path- 
way of  his  present,  assuaging  the  sharp  hurts  the 
memory  of  the  past  gives  him.  Carrie  would  applaud 
him  now,  I  am  sure. 

He  was  very  conscious  of  his  resolution  not  to  think 
of  her  during  those  long  days  of  endless,  laborious 
toil  and  discussion;  but  in  the  little  pauses  of  the  work 
upon  the  stage,  while  he  sat  in  the  darkened  auditorium 
and  made  notes,  I  am  afraid  there  was  very  little  else 
in  his  mind.  The  whole  vast  audience  of  the  first  night 
was  resolved  into  the  face  of  Carrie,  not  so  eager  now, 
alas,  but  staring  at  the  stage  to  see  what  her  old  Sammy 
had  done  with  his  genius.  All  the  effects  were  contrived 
for  her.  He  was  trying  to  put  the  new  soul  of  Sammy 


THE  BALANCE  303 

upon  the  stage  so  that  she  might  know  that  he  had 
changed.  That  she  would  ever  again  come  into  the 
fabric  of  his  Ufe,  he  never  suspected.  It  was  more  as 
if  he  built  a  memorial  to  some  one  he  had  once  known, 
to  whom  he  would  dedicate  this  flowering  of  a  long- 
planted  inspiration. 

She  would  come,  he  thought;  even  if  the  run  were  but 
for  two  weeks  she  would  contrive  to  get  there  neverthe- 
less. She  would  never  leave  him  forever  judged  and 
damned  upon  that  first  play  of  his  when  there  was  new 
evidence  offered  that  might  reverse  the  verdict.  She 
was  too  fair  for  that,  and  Melchester  was  but  a  few 
hours  away  by  train.  Plays  in  the  Fine  Arts  were 
always  matter  for  conversation  in  Melchester.  She 
could  not  help  but  hear  and  come. 
.,  He  did  not  realize  the  changes,  physical  and  intel- 
lectual, which  were  altering  him  so  out  of  all  resemblance 
to  that  youth  Melchester  had  once  known.  A  man 
now,  our  Sammy,  with  dark  eyes  and  firm  mouth,  and 
in  his  bearing  that  spirit  of  kindness  which  gradually 
transformed  his  life;  a  man,  these  people  in  the  cast  of 
"Doctor  Paulding"  feel  instinctively,  with  the  charm  of 
life  in  his  soul.  To  Melchesterians  he  might  seem  a 
trifle  worn,  gaunt,  yet  made  of  steel,  as  he  walks  back  to 
Seventy-second  Street  with  John  Cromwell  these  late 
summer  evenings;  his  eyes  a  trifle  deepset  yet  flashing 
with  spirit.  But  it  is  only  the  scar  of  the  conflict  he  has 
waged  and  won.  He  is  a  handsome  boy  no  longer; 
Sammy's  first  youth  has  flown  from  him  on  West 
Twenty-ninth  Street  in  the  winter. 

That  time  bore  so  lightly  upon  the  charm  of  Carrie 
during  the  months  was  because  of  her  untroubled  spirit. 
In  spite  of  that  little  look  of  sadness  I  do  not  think 
she  looked  an  hour  older  than  in  those  .days  in  Mel- 
chester. Her  task  lay  plain  before  her,  and  the  full 
accomplishment  of  her  days  and  nights  left  her  little 
opportunity  for  self-scrutiny.  She  would  have  been 
almost  happy  had  she  ever  found  a  way  to  combat 
the  little  memories  of  the  past  that  sprang  up  in  un- 


304  THE  BALANCE 

expected  places  and  cried  to  her  of  Sammy.  She  was 
glad  now,  at  least,  that  she  could  no  longer  hear  the 
swish  of  the  trees  along  Washington  Avenue  in  the 
night  breeze  of  sultry  August,  need  pass  no  more  the 
Washington  Theatre  with  its  memories  of  a  certain 
play  given  there  long  ago,  need  catch  glimpses  no 
longer  of  the  country  club  across  the  river  with  its  bars 
of  light  falling  from  the  windows  out  athwart  the  links; 
need  not  pass  Hawthorne  Street  with  its  ageing  hedge 
catching  the  snow  of  December  or  the  rain  of  fall,  and 
shining  before  the  lamps  of  the  homecoming  motors 
in  the  dusk. 

There  were  none  of  these  things  to  bring  back  to  her 
the  memory  of  the  promise  life  had  once  held;  and  yet 
I  think  they  were  all  there  in  New  York,  in  different 
guises,  different  places,  under  different  names.  It  was 
the  sun  of  Melchester  and  he,r  youth  that  set  behind  the 
Jersey  hills  across  the  misty,  purple  river,  when  she 
would  be  returning  from  a  walk  upon  the  drive;  it  was 
the  rain  dripping  from  the  big  elms  along  Melchester 
streets  that  she  heard  falling  when  the  drops  fell  from 
the  roofs  upon  the  window-sills  of  Rivington  Street 
tenements;  the  rippling  of  the  river  by  the  country  club 
that  she  heard,  in  the  lap,  lap  of  the  muddy  water  along 
the  Floating  Church  by  Henry  Street;  the  billboards  of 
the  Washington  Theatre  in  the  bright  lights  of  Broad- 
way and  Seventh  Avenue,  making  her  wonder  always 
what  Sammy  was  writing  now;  she  could  never  escape 
the  mournful  music  of  those  memories,  springing  up  so 
suddenly,  reminding  her  of  all  her  life  lacked.  Almost 
all  that  her  will  ever  accomplished  was  the  banishment 
from  her  conscious  recollection  of  that  evening  Sammy 
kissed  her  out  on  the  cool,  dark  links,  and  the  sound  of 
the  closing  door  behind  him  in  the  Schroeder  drawing- 
room,  the  night  of  the  production  of  the  "Lady  in  the 
Lion  Skin." 

She  wrote  Annie  once  a  month.  But  that  Sammy 
had  never  answered  her  own  last  letter  and  that  she  did 
not  hear  from  him  any  longer,  Carrie  never  told  her. 


THE  BALANCE  305 

They  were  meant  for  each  other  was  Annie's  only 
thought,  as  she  waited  silently  upon  the  family  around 
the  quiet  table  of  the  Schroeders'  in  Melchester,  were 
meant,  and  so  would  have  each  other  in  time. 

It  was  through  one  of  those  benefits  arranged  for  the 
victims  of  some  particularly  atrocious  factory  fire  that 
Carrie  first  heard  of  the  John  Cromwell  venture  at  the 
Fine  Arts;  heard  and  thrilled.  Dark  days  for  the 
seekers  after  social  justice,  those  days  of  Sammy's 
early  career,  with  the  accumulated  forces  of  ignorance 
and  prejudice,  apathy  and  self-interest  arraying  them- 
selves against  every  advance,  even  when  the  object 
might  be  the  aid  of  little  children  in  sweatshops;  dark 
days  through  which  ventures  like  that  at  the  Fine  Arts 
sent  a  beam  of  hope  and  cheer  in  the  gray  chill  of  the 
social  mist,  a  beam  that  gathered  to  the  theatre  the 
great  hearted  of  a  metropolis  in  a  mighty  effort  to  say 
godspeed  to  each  new  champion  should  he  prove  worthy; 
gathered,  too,  along  with  them,  the  carpers  and  cynical 
critics  that  seem  to  attend  every  great  movement  of 
the  world,  their  mission  perhaps  praiseworthy,  their 
methods  the  world-old  ones  of  the  narrow-minded. 

Sammy  never  forgot  the  great  variegated  crowd  of  the 
''Doctor  Paulding"  first  night.  A  crowd  that  streamed 
along  Forty-fourth  Street  in  the  rain  from  two  direc- 
tions, and  poured  ceaselessly  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Fine  Arts  Theatre,  spreading  through  the  lobbies,  the 
promenades,  the  galleries,  the  balconies,  the  boxes,  the 
orchestra  circle  in  a  thousand  odd  colours  and  voices,  a 
never-ending  kaleidoscope  of  human  faces  and  expres- 
sions, settling  into  the  hum  of  humanity  in  the  mass, 
once  seats  were  found. 

In  the  little  manager's  office,  that  famous  office  with 
the  signed  portraits  on  the  walls,  the  small  space  a 
breathing  memory  of  all  the  greatness  of  the  stage, 
Sammy  sat  and  watched  them  come;  saw  those  whose 
faces  were  marred  by  poverty  taking  the  side  stairways 
that  led  to  the  galleries,  the  shuffle  and  side  glances  of 
the  poor  accentuated  by  the  brightness  of  the  lobby; 


306  THE  BALANCE 

watched  the  gayly  yet  tawdrily  dressed  occupants  of  the 
balconies — clerks,  stenographers,  commuters,  teachers, 
visitors — all  imitating,  unsuccessfully,  the  style  and 
conscious  grandeur  of  the  motor-driven  assemblage  in 
evening  dress  that  crowded  into  the  boxes  and  orchestra 
circle  below — painted  cheeks  beside  ascetic-faced  pro- 
fessors, dowagers,  brokers,  writers,  salesmen,  first 
nighters,  publishers,  debutantes,  roues,  buyers,  society 
favourites,  all  in  the  pushing  crowd;  marked  the  tall 
men  from  the  Southwest,  in  broad-brimmed  hats, 
bringing  for  a  brief  moment  the  stretching  plains  of 
Texas  into  the  heated  air  of  the  lobby;  the  heavy-jowled 
near  statesmen  from  Nebraska  and  the  Dakotas  in  their 
black  felt  hats;  the  hawklike  ranchers  from  the  far 
grassy  hills  of  Wyoming,  uncomfortable  in  stiff  shirt  and 
collar;  the  humorous-lined  faces  of  shrewd  merchants 
from  Ohio,  Illinois,  Missouri;  beside  them  ruddy-skinned 
neighbours  from  the  farms  of  the  Middle  West,  real 
Americans  all  these  last,  except  where  some  German 
face  from  Iowa,  some  Scandinavian  face  from  Minne- 
sota proclaimed  the  mixture  of  the  republic — all  points 
of  light,  these  faces,  tipping  the  waves  of  Gothamites 
who  surged  endlessly  through  the  open  door  into  the 
velvet-hung  foyer,  waves  sprinkled  with  the  intellect  of 
New  England,  the  hot  blood  of  the  South,  the  moustached 
near-aristocrats  of  the  smaller  cities,  and,  beneath  all, 
the  mad  hodge-podge  of  the  representatives  of  the 
millions  of  New  York. 

I  think  Sammy's  faith  faltered  for  a  moment  as  he  sat 
in  the  office  by  the  lamplight  on  the  desk,  and  saw  that 
vast  audience,  the  unthinking  face  of  America,  stream  in 
from  the  rainswept  street.  Could  all  that  heterogene- 
ous mass  of  humanity  possess  a  common  heart  and 
soul,  common  aspirations?  Was  there  a  heart  of  hu- 
manity in  these  Americas?  Or  was  John  Cromwell 
amusing  the  Pharisees  with  the  dream  of  what  they 
might  have  been  but  now  no  longer  cared  to  be,  except 
in  the  comfortable,  artistically  lighted  theatre?  And 
he  himself  the  purveyor  of  the  dream  ? 


THE  BALANCE  307 

It  was  only  when  the  lights  were  lowered  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  tolling  bell  that  proclaims  the  approach  of 
the  first  act  in  the  Fine  Arts  and  Sammy  looked  out 
from  the  curtained  box  where  he  and  Ruby  sat — looked 
out  upon  the  illuminated  faces  of  the  seated  crowd,  that 
he  realized  the  opportunity  God  had  given  him  in  his 
genius — his  talent,  calling  the  soul  of  America  to  listen 
before  a  thousand  prosceniums. 

He  never  forgot  the  hush  of  the  voices  as  the  curtain 
rose  on  that  plain  study  of  Doctor  Paulding's  which 
seemed  like  a  real  place  in  the  world  to  him.  It  was  the 
poverty  of  lower  New  York  near  the  river  that  stood 
outside  that  scene  in  the  Fine  Arts  and  came  in  with 
Doctor  Paulding,  as  John  Cromwell  entered  and  the 
drama  rose,  tightened  a  little,  and  then  led  the  assem- 
blage in  the  seats  forward  down  the  valley  of  imagina- 
tion; a  reality  that  spoke  inexorably  to  the  listeners 
beyond  the  footlights;  the  soul  of  truth  beating  through 
the  lines  the  actors  spoke. 

He  never  forgot,  either,  the  way  in  which  the  menace 
of  the  play  rose  and  mounted  higher  and  higher,  until  it 
seemed  as  if  even  he  himself  must  rise  in  his  box,  and  cry 
out  to  the  blind  actors  on  the  stage,  and  warn  them  of 
the  catastrophe  impending  there,  before  it  was  too  late. 
He  knew  before  the  play  was  half  over  that  he  had 
written  something  great. 

It  seems  odd,  now,  to  consider  that  he  did  not  once 
look  at  that  far  seat  in  the  left  balcony  where  an  oval- 
faced  girl  sat,  a  look  of  never-failing  tenderness  in  her 
eyes  that  somehow  hushed  the  efforts  of  the  two  stray 
medical  students  behind  her  to  distract  her  attention  to 
them  from  the  stage. 

In  Carrie's  heart  the  little  nervous  dread  of  those  first 
few  minutes  which  she  carried  with  her  all  her  life  when- 
ever she  saw  one  of  Sammy's  plays  has  given  way  to  a 
tiny  feeling  of  exultation,  as  the  drama  catches  up  the 
wandering  threads  of  mind  in  the  theatre  and  weaves 
them  into  the  single  strand  which  holds  fast  the  souls  of 
the  audience  to  the  tragedy  upon  the  stage.  Gradually, 


308  THE  BALANCE 

too,  the  magic  of  the  conception  the  actors  unroll  before 
her  lays  hold  of  her,  grips  her,  until  she  is  no  longer  con- 
scious of  the  theatre,  of  these  people  around  her,  the 
great  tiers  of  faces — is  held  only  as  by  a  bar  of  fire  to  the 
soul  of  Sammy  bared  to  her  gaze,  flashing  with  the 
spirit  of  his  new  vision!  No  "Lady  in  the  Lionskin," 
this.  Here,  too,  the  same  genius,  the  same  deft  skill — 
only  turned  now  upon  the  clay  of  real  humanity,  and 
modelling  a  figure  that  seems  to  turn  to  breathing  reality 
as  the  lines  appear — the  fine  heart  of  man  apparent  in 
every  lineament. 

Where  has  Sammy  learned  all  this? 

It  is  as  the  play  progresses  that  her  heart  comes  into 
her  throat  with  the  desire  she  has  to  see  him  once  more — 
this  is  the  Sammy  she  has  always  known,  except  for  that 
brief  time  when  those  chameleon  spots  of  his  shone  with 
a  different  colour — this  the  Sammy  of  her  idealistic 
youth,  the  Sammy  of  her  girlhood  love  and  young 
passion,  the  Sammy,  thank  God,  of  the  rest  of  her  life. 

The  acts  passed  almost  as  if  without  cessation  before 
her  gaze,  the  applause  almost  unheard  until  that  final 
climax.  No  one  who  saw  that  ever  forgot  it.  The 
streaming,  uplifted  faces  of  that  vast  assemblage  stirred 
to  the  depths  of  their  beings,  and  applauding  wildly  the 
worn,  gaunt  man  whom  John  Cromwell  and  his  fellow 
actors  held  on  their  shoulders  and  upraised  arms.  It 
was  as  if  all  the  suffering  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  life 
leaped  full  grown  before  the  thousands  in  the  Fine  Arts; 
and  they  rose  as  if  drawn  by  some  mighty  power  from 
their  seats — rose  and  cheered  until  the  gray-clad  girl  in 
the  balcony  rose  and  trembled  with  the  effort  of  keeping 
her  arms  by  her  side  and  her  hand  from  her  throat. 

"Sammy!"  she  cried,  in  the  uproar.  But  I  do  not 
think  any  one  in  the  theatre  heard  her. 

The  intangible  feeling  of  the  play  had  become  sud- 
denly real  to  her  as  she  saw  the  lined  face  of  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  upon  the  stage,  saw  the  look  in  his  eyes,  and 
that  firm  line  around  his  mouth — and  she  knew  that  he 
had  changed.  It  was  as  if  those  trousers  of  his  shrank 


THE  BALANCE  309 

suddenly  to  the  knees  again,  as  they  had  been  when  she 
first  saw  him.  She  did  not  see  the  triumph,  the  success, 
the  great  ovation  of  the  theatre — she  saw  only  the  loneli- 
ness, the  misery,  the  adversity  which  could  ever  have 
made  him  look  like  that.  Even  in  the  Fine  Arts  those 
legs  of  his  were  still  thin  to  her,  and  her  heart  cried  out 
to  him  over  the  balcony. 

I  only  wish  she  could  have  seen  through  the  curtains 
around  Sammy's  box  where  Ruby  sat  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  her  eyes  fixed,  through  the  brass  rings,  on  an 
Irish  face  in  the  orchestra  circle,  in  her  hand  a  note 
which  has  changed  her  heart  to  ice — a  note  from  Bantry, 
congratulating  her — and  himself — upon  S.  Sydney 
Tappan's  fine  success. 

If  only  Carrie  could  have  seen  through  and  guessed 
the  truth!  She  would  have  saved  herself  and  Sammy 
the  bitterest  hour  of  their  lives. 

Well,  at  least  S.  Sydney  Tappan  is  weighing  heavily 
on  the  scales  to-night.  We  can  give  him  credit  for  that. 
I  think  that  was  why  Carrie  went  home  in  the  rain  to  her 
Settlement  room,  with  that  feeling  of  exultation  in  her 
heart. 

He  had  found  himself,  at  last! 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN  WHICH  CARRIE  MAKES  A  CALL  UPON  SAMMY,  AND 
RUBY  REGRETS  IT  MOST 

THAT  exultation  was  still  in  her  heart  when  she  awoke 
next  morning  and  lay  for  a  moment  on  the  plain  bed, 
and  saw  again  the  play  Sammy  had  written — saw  it  as 
she  had  seen  it  the  night  before.  She  had  been  right, 
after  all,  that  day  in  the  Settlement  in  Melchester  so 
many  months  ago  when  she  thanked  God  for  Sammy. 
The  world  was  not  all  like  her  father.  It  was  with  a 
fine  lightness  of  heart  that  she  rose  to  the  tasks  of  the 
day. 

For  the  first  time  then  she  began  to  suspect,  unworth- 
ily, the  reliability  of  our  postal  service.  A  letter  to  Mel- 
chester  would  assuredly  have  been  forwarded  to  her 
here,  had  one  ever  been  received  at  the  Settlement  on 
Hague  Street.  A  year  now  since  that  last  note  of  his 
enclosing  the  Martha  Grossman  check  came  to  the  door! 
He 'must  have  written  this  play  since  then.  And  in  it 
surely  there  was  no  sign  of  the  influence  of  Miss  Tre- 
maine.  Dorothy  must  have  been  in  error  when  she 
came  back  from  her  trip  to  New  York,  and  reported  his 
engagement  and  a  new  play  to  follow  the  "Lady  in  the 
Lion  Skin."  He  would  not  be  apt  to  write  a  play  like 
"Doctor  Paulding"  with  Sylvia  Tremaine  at  his  elbow. 
Too,  if  he  had  been  engaged  he  would  have  written  her 
about  it  among  the  first,  even  if  it  had  been  broken  off 
later.  Dorothy  has  never  been  too  noted  for  her  re- 
liability. 

Oddly  enough  it  was  the  conviction  she  had  that 
Sammy  must  have  written  her  and  the  letter  gone  astray 
that  kept  her  from  writing  to  him  herself,  at  first.  She 

310 


THE  BALANCE  311 

could  not  put  from  her  mind  the  memory  of  his  changed 
face  as  he  stood  upon  the  stage  for  his  speech,  a  smile 
upon  his  lips,  in  his  eyes  unwavering  sadness.  But 
surely  he  could  never  have  been  so  cruel  as  to  keep  the 
truth  from  her,  had  trouble  come  to  him  this  past  year. 
It  followed  her,  however,  that  thought  of  his  trouble  and 
her  own  aloofness;  followed  and  distressed  her  in  the 
days  that  elapsed  after  the  night  at  the  theatre,  and 
prevented  her  from  writing  the  note  of  thanks  and 
gratitude  she  would  otherwise  have  sent  him  lest  it 
should  be  a  coldly  formal  answer  to  his  lost  cry  for  sym- 
pathy and  help.  It  obsessed  her — the  phantasm  of  his 
trouble  and  suffering;  a  phantasm  made  more  dis- 
quieting by  the  lack  of  definite  knowledge  that  hindered 
her  from  writing  him  her  real  thoughts;  obsessed  and 
haunted  her  until  she  called  the  office  of  the  Fine  Arts 
and  inquired,  with  a  little  fast  beating  of  her  heart,  for 
S.  Sydney  Tappan's  address. 

"Leave  your  name,  please,  and  we  will  deliver  your 
message,"  the  polite  youth  there  responds  firmly  over 
the  telephone.  He  has  had  experience  before  with  the 
crazy  people  who  seem  to  chase  these  playwrights  and 
actors  of  the  Fine  Arts.  His  business  is  to  find  out  in  ad- 
vance what  they  want. 

Carrie,  in  the  dim  hall  of  the  house  on  the  East  Side, 
blushes  a  little. 

"No  message,  thank  you,"  she  says,  a  trifle  con- 
fusedly. She  has  not  thought  before  of  the  system  of 
bars  to  strangers  which  New  York  presents.  Fate  seems 
to  be  against  her  in  her  effort  to  see  Sammy. 

She  does  not  think  of  John  Cromwell  for  some  time. 
When  she  does  so,  it  is  with  little  confidence  that  she 
calls  the  number,  and  waits  while  some  one  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire  goes  in  search  of  information. 

But  her  luck  is  better  this  time.  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
has  just  moved,  it  seems. 

"The  Stradford,"  the  voice  informs  her.  "Near 
Broadway." 

Some  kind  of  family  apartment  hotel  she  sees  in  the 


312  THE  BALANCE 

telephone  book.  "Doctor  Paulding"  is  probably  making 
Sammy  some  money  and  he  has  moved.  Sammy!  It 
is  with  a  little  thrill  that  she  contemplates  her  visit  to 
him.  Letters  are  quite  unsatisfactory — and  this  will  be 
a  surprise!  It  has  always  been  a  mere  question  of  time 
before  they  would  meet  again,  she  sees  now.  They  have 
been  undergoing  the  test  in  the  crucible  of  life  and  can 
perhaps  emerge  now  into  happiness.  To-morrow,  or 
perhaps  Monday,  when  she  has  some  time  to  herself,  she 
will  go  to  the  Stradford  and  see  Sammy  again.  She 
does  not  dare  to  allow  herself  to  reflect  upon  that  inter- 
view, either!  It  will  be  so  sweet. 

It  was  about  the  same  time  that,  in  another  section  of 
the  city,  Bantry  was  standing  grinning  cynically  to  him- 
self in  the  doorway  of  the  Sixtieth  Street  house. 

They  have  left — the  missus  sick — so  the  landlady  has 
told  him — left  directly  after  his  own  visit  that  afternoon 
a  few  days  ago  when  Mr.  Tappan  was  out;  though  from 
what  precise  disease  the  lady  has  been  suffering,  the 
landlady  has  not  had  time  to  find  out.  Left  without 
leaving  any  address,  either! 

The  landlady's  husband  is  a  barber,  and  what  with  his 
meals  and  the  cats  to  be  fed,  and  all  the  washing  and  the 
bells,  she  has  no  time  for  visiting  her  roomers! 

There  is  a  triumphant  look  in  Bantry's  eyes,  a  look 
not  unlike  the  one  when  he  strode  off  down  the  street  in 
Utica,  as  he  turns  away  this  time.  He  is  remembering 
this  last  interview  on  Sixtieth  Street.  So,  she  is  actually 
afraid  of  him!  That  is  why  they  have  moved  and  she  is 
sick.  His  threat  has  had  its  effect  this  time.  He  has 
made  it  plain.  Can  it  be,  though,  that  the  girl  is  fool 
enough  to  think  he  is  still  after  her,  instead  of  after 
money?  The  conceit  of  'em  all!  He  has  blown  her  to 
many  a  meal  in  the  days  when  he  was  a  sucker.  Well, 
by  God,  she  can  blow  him  for  a  little!  Tappan  will 
have  money  now>  and  she  can  lay  hands  upon  some  as 
easily  as  not.  That  is  all.  He  may  need  what  little 
money  he  has  still  stowed  away. 

He  smiles  cynically  to  himself.     A  mere  change  of 


THE  BALANCE  313 

address  will  not  save  her,  he  thinks;  and  he  is  quite 
certain  now  that  through  some  queer  change  in  the 
woman  she  will  prefer  giving  up  her  last  cent  to  letting 
him  touch  her  again.  What  has  produced  the  change 
he  does  not  know  or  care — beyond  the  fact  that  it 
is  damned  lucky  for  him.  And  he  can  find  the  new 
address  at  either  the  Fine  Arts  or  the  Lambs'  Club. 

A  thoroughly  selfish  person,  our  Mr.  Bantry,  without 
visible  ties  in  the  world  because  he  has  deliberately 
broken  them  so  as  to  be  better  free  to  act  as  he  wishes. 
He  does  not  fear  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  either.  Our  Mr. 
Bantry  is  not  a  coward  in  that  way.  He  has  too  much 
self-assurance  for  that — a  self-assurance  which  is  real 
and  not  assumed,  and  comes,  therefore,  as  an  aid  always 
to  his  courage.  He  is  perfectly  capable  of  carrying  this 
thing  through  without  a  qualm. 

I  think  that  was  why,  from  the  day  Ruby  saw  him 
from  the  geranium-choked  window  of  the  parlour  in 
Utica,  she  felt  that  she  was  doomed.  He  had  not  rested 
until  he  had  ruined  her  before;  he  would  never  cease  now 
until  he  had  ruined  her  for  good  and  all — unless,  per- 
haps, she  could  persuade  him  that  his  advantage  lay  in 
giving  up  the  attempt.  That  it  might  be  money  now, 
and  not  desire  for  her  that  urged  him  on  did  not  enter 
her  mind.  The  inclination  of  the  feminine  mind  is  not 
toward  the  minimizing  of  personal  attraction.  In 
this  case  the  facts  of  the  past  supported  all  that 
Ruby  cared  to  think.  Bantry  had  stopped  at  nothing 
once! 

It  is  a  vulgar  fact  that  moments  of  great  emotion  only 
leave  us,  sometimes,  with  weak  stomachs  or  splitting 
heads  or  dry  throats.  So  it  was  that  the  beginning  of 
Ruby's  realization  that  she  had  but  exchanged  one  hell 
for  another  only  caused  a  great  nausea  to  rush  over  her 
as  she  saw  Bantry  descending  the  steps  on  Sixtieth 
Street  that  day.  In  her,  too,  there  was  a  mounting  sense 
of  hopelessness,  of  despair  that  overwhelmed  her  physi- 
ical  condition  and  added  the  last  touch  to  her  hatred  of 
herself — it  came  from  her  growing  comprehension  of  the 


314  THE  BALANCE 

fact  that  she  herself  was  falling  in  love  with  Sammy,  in 
the  face  of  her  approaching  doom. 

It  evidenced  itself  to  her  in  those  days  in  her  efforts 
to  make  herself  over  to  please  him.  I  think  she  knew 
instinctively  that  she  was  not  a  lady  in  his  sense  of  the 
term,  and  wondered  in  her  soul  if  that  was  why  she  ap- 
parently did  not  attract  him  in  the  slightest.  It  was 
why  she  ceased  dropping  her  g's,  and  modulated  her 
voice,  and  tried  so  hard  to  efface  her  naturally  joyous 
disposition  in  an  endeavour  to  appear  quiet  and  refined. 
Poor  Ruby !  She  was  realizing  then,  to  some  extent,  the 
sacrifice  Sammy  had  made  for  her,  and  was  seeing  her 
own  efforts  now  to  keep  him  from  regretting  it  as  the 
very  least  that  she  could  do  for  him  in  return.  She  was 
prepared  to  spend  her  life  in  showing  gratitude.  If 
mere  desire  could  have  made  of  her  a  lady,  she  would 
have  been  one  on  the  spot.  Her  resolution  might  not 
have  stood  the  test  so  well  had  it  not  coincided  so  per- 
fectly with  her  own  desires  of  course;  but  I  must  give  her 
the  credit  for  what  she  did,  at  least.  She  tried  to  make 
it  up  to  Sammy  so  far  as  she  could. 

She  was  lying  on  the  parlour  sofa  when  he  came  back 
to  their  three  Sixtieth  Street  rooms  that  afternoon  of 
Bantry's  visit,  and  found  her  in  a  dead  faint  alone. 

"Just  sudden,"  she  said,  later,  avoiding  his  eyes  as  he 
questioned  her  about  what  had  made  her  faint.  "My 
condition,  I  suppose!" 

At  least  she  will  not  tell  of  Bantry's  visit,  and  give 
suspicion  an  opening  wedge  in  Sammy's  mind.  It  was 
her  first  mistake  of  that  week. 

"Just  after  that  gentleman's  visit,  I  guess,"  the  land- 
lady tells  him  downstairs,  between  sweepings  of  the  cats 
into  the  dismal  backyard. 

It  was  characteristic  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  however, 
that  at  the  time  the  remark  did  not  interest  him  in  the 
least.  It  is  another  instance  of  the  strange  blindness 
from  which  people  suffer  who  live  much  in  their  minds. 
He  was  not  even  conscious  that  the  sentence  registered 
itself  upon  his  brain  along  with  the  tragic  statements  of 


THE  BALANCE  315 

Pudney  that  evening  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street  in 
the  winter. 

Upstairs,  a  little  later,  Ruby  checks  a  "gosh "upon 
her  lips  and  says  quietly: 

"Let's  move,  Tappy.  It  makes  me  think  of  the 
winter,  here!" 

She  is  clever  enough  to  realize  the  sympathy  her  past 
arouses  in  him,  and  not  above  using  it  to  gain  her  own 
ends.  There  are  no  fine  distinctions  in  Ruby.  It  seems 
to  her  that  she  must  escape  Bantry  at  all  costs.  Per- 
haps it  is  the  fever  that  she  has  had  since  that  fainting 
spell,  a  fever  that  seems  to  come  and  go  in  gusts  with 
the  phantoms  of  her  brain. 

Sammy  relieves  her  mind. 

"We  can  very  easily,"  he  says  gently.  It  seems  queer 
at  times  to  realize  that  "Doctor  Paulding"  is  making  him 
nearly  seven  hundred  dollars  a  week,  with  a  steadily 
rising  demand  for  seats.  They  are  being  sold  four 
weeks  in  advance,  now!  And  it  is  not  two  weeks  since 
it  was  put  on. 

"To-morrow!"  she  says  appealingly. 

It  is  the  distaste,  he  thinks,  that  illness  sometimes  con- 
cieves  for  certain  surroundings. 

"I'll  look,"  he  says,  "and  ask  Cromwell  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"I'll  pack,"  she  adds,  with  a  little  smile  at  the  meagre- 
ness  their  belongings  still  display.  The  round-topped 
trunk  has  not  been  opened. 

In  the  Stradford,  however,  where  he  has  brought 
her  in  a  taxicab  the  next  day,  her  fever  does  not  seem 
to  diminish. 

"It's  not  serious — partly  her  condition,"  the  doctor 
says — he  is  the  kindly  old  doctor  again,  still  blowing 
his  nose — "partly  mental  worry,  I  think." 

He  glances  oddly  at  Sammy,  who  catches  him  at  it. 

"Meaning,  I  suppose,"  S.  Sydney  Tappan  says, 
"that  I  beat  her  daily  with  an  umbrella?" 

The  old  doctor  laughs;  then  grows  grave  again. 

"There  are  worse  things  than  beatings,"  he  says 


316  THE  BALANCE 

seriously.     "Though  it  looks  like  fever  hallucinations, 
in  this  case.     I'll  come  again." 

Quite  fine  rooms,  these  rooms  of  the  Stradford 
apartments  where  S.  Sydney  Tappan  finds  himself 
these  days  with  this  girl  whose  appellation  is  that  of 
wife,  and  for  whom  he  has  gotten  a  maid  now.  He 
cannot  stay  in  himself  all  day,  and  no  one  can  tell  when 
another  fainting  spell  may  come  upon  her.  How  fortu- 
nate for  them  both  that  "Dr.  Paulding"  has  succeeded! 

"It's  my  head,  I'm  sure,  Tappy,"  she  says  just 
before  the  doctor  comes  again.  "Get  something  to 
make  it  stop  aching." 

The  ache  could  not  be  banished,  however,  about 
the  hours  the  mailman  called  and  she  listened  intently 
for  the  maid  to  bring  the  letters  upstairs.  She  expected 
a  note  from  Bantry  in  almost  every  mail,  and  lived  in 
hell  between  the  mailman's  visits  and  the  rings  on  the 
street  door  down  below. 

In  Sammy's  mind  there  was  a  great  pity  for  her  that 
would  not  allow  him  to  consider  sending  her  again  to 
Utica  and  the  mean  house  on  the  side  street  unless  she 
expressed  the  desire  herself.  She  clung  to  him  and  all 
he  represented  of  her  old  life  like  some  sick  animal  to 
the  human  home  which  has  housed  it  all  its  days.  She 
never  tired  either  of  trying  to  find  out  if  he  really  did 
not  despise  her  for  her  mistake.  She  seemed  to  revel 
in  the  fact  that  she  was  no  different  in  his  eyes  because 
of  it.  Perhaps  her  passionate  desire  to  be  absolved 
was  because  of  the  great  wrong  she  had  done  him  of 
which  he  was  ignorant. 

He  always  treated  it  as  lightly  as  he  dared. 

"Of  course  you  are  the  same  to  me,"  he  would  say. 
"Why  not?  It  might  happen  to  any  one  in  your  posi- 
tion. I'm  not  Mrs.  Grundy." 

It  was  never  a  light  thing  to  her,  however. 

"God  bless  you,  Tappy,"  she  would  say.  "You're 
the  only  true  gentleman  I  ever  knew." 

It  is  no  wonder  that  she  fell  in  love  with  him.  It  was 
different  than  the  love  she  had  felt  for  Ricorton.  She 


THE  BALANCE  317 

had  always  felt  with  the  tall  musician  that  she  was 
upon  the  verge  of  great  things.  Sammy  was  the  hero 
who  had  done  them.  She  had  a  vast  respect  for  him 
that  nothing  could  ever  shake.  It  was  this  realization 
of  his  quality  that  made  of  her  life  a  martyrdom.  She 
had  sold  herself  to  her  own  particular  hell  because  she 
did  not  wish  to  pay  for  her  own  mistake  in  the  begin- 
ning. It  is  not  surprising  that  when  she  finally  realized 
all  that  Sammy  had  paid  for  her,  her  soul  could  not 
stand  beneath  the  crushing  burden  of  remorse.  Such 
feelings  are  not  confined  to  the  old  melodramas. 

Her  mind,  as  she  lay  in  bed,  was  occupied  almost 
solely  with  her  position  and  its  solution.  I  do  not 
know  that  she  ever  hoped  to  really  solve  it;  it  was  only 
that  her  mind  kept  turning  to  it  like  to  some  maddening, 
tragic  Pigs  in  Clover,  in  which  her  calculations  were 
always  upset  by  some  unlooked-for  rush  of  the  pigs! 
It  always  stood  out  clearly  to  her  that  Bantry  as  well 
as  herself  would  lose  all  by  telling  the  truth  to  Sammy. 
He  could  only  continue  to  gain  so  long  as  he  could 
threaten.  And  yet  she  could  not  escape  the  grim  fact 
that  while  he  would  but  lose  this  one  chance  of  expos- 
ing her,  she  would  lose  everything — to  find  herself 
perhaps  at  his  mercy  again  if  she  survived;  an  ugly 
circle  in  which  the  truth  meant  disaster  to  her  as  well 
as  relief. 

There  were  times  when  she  considered  throwing 
herself  upon  Sammy's  generosity  and  telling  him  the 
whole  truth  from  the  beginning,  before  Bantry  should 
force  it  upon  her;  days  when  she  watched  anxiously 
to  make  sure  for  the  thousandth  time  that  he  did  not 
despise  her,  and  so  might  fall  in  love  with  her  yet.  It 
was  the  hope  that  was  always  with  her  that  this  might 
happen  to-morrow  that  made  her  keep  putting  off  the 
reckoning  from  day  to  day — putting  it  off  until  the  day 
came  when  she  realized  that  he  could  never  come  to 
love  her  because  he  loved  already — and  had  saved  her 
just  the  same. 

It  was  the   day  Carrie   rang  the  bell,   and   Ruby 


318  THE  BALANCE 

strained  her  ears  in  the  bedroom  off  the  parlour  to 
catch  the  voices  in  the  hall  for  the  tones  of  Bantry's 
baritone. 

"A  lady  for  you,  Mr.  Tappan,"  the  maid  says  doubt- 
fully from  the  end  of  the  long  hall.  "Though  she 
won't  give  her  name." 

It  is  Carrie,  still  hugging  to  her  breast  that  surprise 
where  she  stands  out  in  the  hall,  her  breath  coming  in 
little  gasps  with  the  excitement  of  seeing  Sammy  now 
so  soon.  I  cannot  bear,  myself,  to  see  her  face  again, 
as  she  stands  there  waiting,  unaware  of  the  tragedy 
inside.  Before  God,  Sammy,  you  should  never  have 
let  it  come  to  this! 

"Let  her  in,"  he  says.  He  cannot  think  who  it  is 
unless  it  is  some  budding  actress  who  wants  his  support, 
or  perhaps  some  new  solicitor  with  a  new  best  thing 
in  the  world.  Sammy  could  never  bear  to  turn  any 
one  away  unheard. 

Carrie  is  coming  down  the  hall  now,  however,  behind 
the  maid  who  only  stands  a  moment  to  show  her  into 
the  parlour  and  then  retires,  unconscious  of  the  drama 
she  has  left  in  the  silence  of  the  room;  a  silence  that 
Ruby  in  the  bedroom  raises  on  elbow  to  solve. 

There  is  no  sound  because  Sammy  is  seeing  a  ghost 
in  the  sunlight  of  that  front  apartment  room — a  ghost 
with  the  memory  of  all  his  past  and  once-cherished 
future  written  on  its  face. 

"Carrie — Carrie!"  he  is  saying.  It  is  almost  a  whis- 
per; as  if  a  real  sound  would  drive  the  face  into  thin  air. 

"It's  I,  Sammy,"  Carrie  says  tremulously.  "Really 
me." 

Grammar  has  left  her  in  the  exquisite  happiness  of 
seeing  him  again.  She  can  give  herself  to  him  at  last, 
in  a  moment.  "You  didn't  expect  to  see  me  here, 
did  you?" 

The  numbness  of  his  brain  bursts  suddenly  into  a 
shooting  pain  of  comprehension  at  the  words.  It  is 
no  face,  but  Carrie. 

"No,"  he  says,  half  choking. 


THE  BALANCE  ;319 

She  brushes  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  turns  away 
with  a  little  laugh. 

"I  can't  help  it — I  couldn't  stay  away  any  longer — 

and  I  saw  your  play Oh,  I'm  so  glad  for  you, 

Sammy!"  It  is  the  old  Carrie,  and  the  truth  will  come. 
"Aren't  I  silly  to  weep?"  she  adds  quaintly. 

In  her  voice  pride,  love,  and  unashamed  emotion 
struggle  for  predominance,  while  a  sharp  sense  of 
the  unreality,  the  impossibility  of  it  all  chains  Sammy 
like  some  modern  Prometheus  to  his  place  beside  his 
chair.  This  girl  who  stands  before  him  with  love  in 
every  lineament  of  her  face,  in  every  movement  of  her 
body,  cannot  be  married — must  be  the  same-  as  on  that 
night  long  ago  when  he  left  her  twisting  her  hands  upon 
the  divan  in  Melchester;  only  weeping  now,  quite 
openly,  at  seeing  him  again. 

"No,  you're  not  silly,"  he  says,  half  blindly.  Good 
God,  what  else  can  he  say? 

A  wave  of  terrible  emotion  sweeps  over  him  with 
the  desire  she  lights  in  him,  a  desire  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  blindly,  fiercely,  passionately,  anyway  to  hold 
her  close  to  him  and  crush  out  the  distress  in  her  eyes. 
There  never  has  been  but  the  one  Carrie  in  the  world 
for  him  since  first  his  youthful  passion  awoke  at  their 
kiss.  I  wonder  what  those  critics  who  called  Sammy 
impersonal  would  have  said  could  they  have  seen  him 
in  the  front  drawing-room  of  the  apartment  that 
afternoon ! 

"I  can't  believe  I  am  seeing  you  yet,"  she  says  now, 
half  laughing,  half  crying.  He  loves  her  just  the  same 
as  ever,  she  knows  now — she  can  see  it  in  his  eyes,  his 
face — she  does  not  care  why  he  has  not  written  to  her 
all  these  months.  There  is  a  good  reason.  "I  came 
down  to  the  Settlement  almost  a  year  ago — father  and 
I  differed — they  had  to  put  me  out " 

"Put  you  out?"  Sammy  says  unsteadily.  Who 
under  heaven  could  have  done  such  a  thing  to  this  girl 
before  him?  He  cannot  frame  his  ideas  at  all,  some- 
how— all  life  seems  concentrated  in  the  present  mo- 


320  THE  BALANCE 

ment,  the  future  only  a  kind  of  frightful  nightmare 
to  be  delayed,  put  off. 

"Yes,"  she  answers.  "I  upset  things  with  my 
ideas — they  interfered  with  his  giving — it  was  better 
for  me  to  come  down  here.  Do  you  see  ? " 

She  makes  these  little  explanations  as  a  sort  of 
concession  to  good  taste,  the  inevitable  convention 
which  precedes  the  overpowering  reality  of  the  moment 
— precedes  without  obscuring  for  an  instant  the  one 
fact  that  they  are  together  at  last. 

Beneath  her  lightness,  however,  Sammy  divines  the 
spirit  which  has  led  her  to  give  up  her  home  and  choose 
the  East  Side  of  New  York  instead. 

"You're  fine,  Carrie,"  he  says  huskily.  Inside,  he 
is  wondering  if  he  can  ever  carry  this  interview  to  a 
finish — she  will  not  talk  of  Settlements  and  Mr.  Schroe- 
der  for  long! 

"You  don't  know  what  a  different  feeling  your  play 

gave  me — when  I  saw  it "  she  says  softly.  "It  was 

so  fine  to  know  that  I  had  you  to  believe  in  again.  It 
is  everything,  Sammy." 

I  think  it  is  utter  hopelessness  that  makes  our  Sammy 
exclaim: 

"Good  God!"  involuntarily.     His  grip  is  slipping. 

"Why — haven't  I?"  she  says  quickly. 

With  a  tiny  inward  crash  his  control  vanishes. 

"Yes,"  he  says  fiercely.     Before  God,  she  has! 

Over  Carrie  there  sweeps  a  presage  of  disaster.  It 
is  something  in  the  way  he  has  said  that  yes.  There  is 
a  moment  of  absolute  stillness  in  the  room  as  he  stops 
speaking,  and  she  gazes  at  him  unwaveringly. 

"The  truth,  Sammy,"  she  says  quietly  then.  "  Don't 
you  love  me  now?" 

It  was  always  the  truth  she  wanted  more  than 
anything  else;  and  she  could  stand  the  evasion  no 
longer.  There  will  be  no  thought  of  blame,  of  re- 
proaches if  he  does  not  care  for  her  as  he  used.  It 
will  not  be  his  fault.  It  will  only  be  unhappy  for  her. 

Sammy  has  stood  more  than  he  can  bear  now,  how- 


THE  BALANCE  321 

ever,  and  he  is  swept  out  of  his  control  upon  the  tumul- 
tuous current  of  his  emotions. 

"Yes,"  he  cries  out  fiercely,  "every  moment  since  I 
left  you,  Carrie — and  now 

Emotion  chokes  his  utterance  as  he  crosses  and 
crushes  her  to  him,  the  thrilling  charm  of  her  mount- 
ing to  his  brain.  The  youthful  passion  of  that  night 
by  the  river  springs  suddenly  full  grown  at  the  sorcery 
of  their  contact  in  this  drawing-room,  filling  their 
souls  with  deathless  ecstasy.  It  is  the  fulfillment  of 
that  ravishing  promise  passion  made  to  them  the  night 
he  kissed  her  out  upon  the  links;  fulfilled  now  in  man- 
hood and  womanhood. 

Neither  of  them  can  hear  the  partial  opening  of  the 
door  that  leads  to  Ruby's  room,  nor  glimpse  the  face 
that  quivers  behind  it  at  their  words.  They  only 
know  that  they  are  in  each  other's  arms  again;  not 
that  in  the  bedroom  hope  has  died  forever. 

It  is  Sammy  who  remembers. 

"Good  God!"  he  says  sharply.     What  has  he  done? 

Carrie's  breath  comes  quickly  as  she  draws  back. 

"What  is  it,  Sammy?"  she  asks.  "What's  hap- 
pened?" 

Again  there  has  swept  over  her  that  presage  of 
coming  disaster  in  this  room — disaster  in  spite  of  the 
thrilling  happiness  of  the  brief  past  moment. 

"Nothing,"  he  says  blindly.  The  impossibility  of 
ever  telling  all  that  has  happened  has  rushed  over  him. 
Ruby!  He  cannot  sacrifice  her  now,  and  undo  all 
that  has  plunged  him  into  this  hell.  And  yet  he  can 
tell  nothing  but  the  truth  to  the  girl  before  him.  He 
will  tell  her  nothing  else — though  all  his  world  is 
shattered  about  him. 

Carrie  stares  about  her. 

"Mr.  Ricorton!"  she  says.     "Where  is  he?" 

"Ric's  dead,"  Sammy  answers. 

"Oh!"  Carrie  is  shocked  for  a  moment.  Somehow, 
she  has  thought  of  the  tall  musician  as  occupying  this 
apartment  with  Sammy. 


322  THE  BALANCE 

But  Sammy  is  striving  for  his  self-possession  again, 
now. 

"He  died  five  months  ago,"  he  says.  "Died  in  hell, 
I  think,  the  thing  I've  been  through  since  I  saw  you — 
the  hell  of  poverty—  Oh,  I've  changed — changed  in 

every  way "  What  can  he  say  that  will  sound 

reasonable  to  her,  he  wonders  desperately?  He  should 
never  have  seen  her,  he  realizes  now. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  says  quietly.  "I  saw  it  all  in  'Doc- 
tor Paulding' 

"It  is  why  I  came  to  you,"  she  goes  on. 

But  it  is  more  than  he  can  stand. 

"Don't!"  he  cries  in  an  agony.  "I  can't  bear  it — 
Carrie 

"You  don't  want  me!"  she  cries  swiftly. 

"God  in  Heaven,  it  is  that  I  can't  have  you!"  he 
sobs,  almost  in  an  insanity.  "It's  untellable,  that's  all 
— I  am  married  now,  married — now — I  tell  you — I 
can't  have  any  one " 

Well,  Sammy  is  paying  for  you,  Ruby,  this  afternoon 
— I  hope  that  you  are  listening  well;  hope,  too,  that 
you  are  seeing  the  look  on  Carrie's  face  as  his  words 
strike  into  her  heart.  She  was  stunned,  as  if  by  some 
blow,  for  a  moment. 

"  Married ! "  she  has  said,  in  a  little  whisper.  "You ! " 
It  is  as  if  it  were  some  foreign  word  of  uncertain  mean- 
ingwhose  import  she  has  had  to  seek  out. 

To  his  dying  day  her  pitiful  face  remained  graven 
upon  Sammy's  memory,  as  she  rose  slowly  and  her  hand 
flew  to  her  throat. 

"Sammy,"  she  cried  in  an  agony,  "why  didn't  you 
tell  me  before!" 

It  was  the  only  reproach  she  ever  uttered.  She 
smiled  then,  a  tiny,  pitiful  smile  that  seemed  to  apolo- 
gize for  her  presence  there  where  she  could  not  be  wanted. 

He  never  remembered  afterward  what  she  said, 
except  at  the  door,  where  it  seemed  to  him  that  his 
mind  must  crash  into  madness  with  the  mighty  effort 
his  will  called  for  to  let  her  go  without  a  word. 


THE  BALANCE  323 

"If  you  had  just  told  me  before,"  she  repeated  then. 
She  could  seem  to  think  of  nothing  else. 

It  was  only  when  she  had  gone  and  the  door  closed 
behind  her  that  Sammy  lost  his  self-control.  It  made 
Ruby  bury  her  face  in  the  pillows  of  the  bed  in  an  agony. 
I  think — an  agony  of  self-reproach,  that  sound.  It 
was  the  sound,  from  the  hall,  of  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
weeping. 

It  was  then  that  she  realized  fully  what  he  had  done 
for  her.  His  sacrifice  had  not  been  all  that  night  in 
Ricorton's  room  on  West  Twenty-ninth  Street. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IN  WHICH  BANTRY  TELLS  THE  TRUTH,  AND  No  ONE 
FINDS  IT  PALATABLE 

IT  is  a  terrible  thing  to  sit  helplessly  by  and  see  events 
march  inexorably  to  a  dreaded  conclusion.  It  was  why 
Ruby  could  not  wait  in  her  bed  for  the  certain  day  when 
Bantry  and  S.  Sydney  Tappan  should  clash,  but  strove 
with  all  the  means  at  her  command  to  avert  the  catas- 
trophe which  threatened.  There  was  no  hope  any 
longer  in  her  that  happiness  could  ever  emerge  from  the 
tangle  of  their  lives.  That  had  died  with  the  closing 
of  the  door  behind  Carrie.  Nor  was  there  much  expec- 
tation of  success  in  her  striving  to  postpone  the  grim 
moment  of  reckoning.  She  strove  because  inactivity 
was  unbearable. 

In  the  afternoons  when  S.  Sydney  Tappan  took  those 
long  walks  through  the  New  Jersey  hills  with  John 
Cromwell  as  his  companion — walks  which  the  actor 
took  willingly  so  that  the  anguish  of  his  friend  might  be 
dulled  by  the  drug  of  physical  weariness — it  was  then 
that  she  racked  her  mind  ceaselessly  for  some  solution 
to  the  appalling  perplexity  of  her  position.  She  hoped 
endlessly  for  some  accident  which  would  dispose  of 
Bantry  without  her  knowledge  or  connivance,  and  looked 
in  the  papers  daily  for  it;  an  accident  she  knew,  never- 
theless, which  would  never  take  place.  The  Bantrys 
of  life  live  to  green  old  ages  usually,  perhaps  the 
better  to  appreciate  the  remorse  their  actions  bring 
them. 

Her  head  seemed  to  ache  almost  continually  in  spite 
of  the  acetanelid  with  which  she  dosed  herself  after  the 
doctor  had  ceased  his  calls.  There  was  no  illness  for 

324 


THE  BALANCE  325 

which  a  doctor  of  medicine  could  prescribe.  Her  sick- 
ness was  of  the  mind. 

It  was  intensified,  I  think,  a  hundred  fold  by  the 
grim  silence  of  Sammy.  He  never  mentioned  to  her 
that  call  of  Carrie's  in  any  way.  I  suppose  he  saw  the 
uselessness  of  it;  the  feeling  of  self-reproach  it  would 
bring  up  in  Ruby;  the  fresh  wound  her  sympathy  would 
make  in  his  own  heart;  the  unfairness  of  the  burden  the 
knowledge  would  lay  upon  her  through  no  fault  of  her 
own.  It  was  his  own  cross,  and  he  bore  it  alone. 
Not  even  to  John  Cromwell  did  he  confide  the  truth. 
I  think  he  understood  for  the  first  time  in  those  days  the 
loneliness  of  the  great  spirits  of  the  world.  That  Ruby 
had  heard  it  all  in  her  bedroom  did  not  occur  to  him. 
She  had  been  asleep  when  he  went  in  afterward  to  see. 

It  was  only  when  Ruby  could  stand  the  inaction  no 
longer  that  she  sent  for  Bantry  with  a  desperate  design 
in  her  mind. 

He  came  one  afternoon  about  an  hour  after  S.  Sydney 
Tappan  had  left  to  meet  Cromwell  at  the  Fort  Lee 
ferry,  came  rather  triumphantly,  except  for  the  cold 
suspicion  in  his  eyes.  She  would  hardly  be  likely  to 
send  for  him  if  she  meant  to  capitulate.  The  strain, 
no  doubt,  of  uncertainty  had  been  bearable  no  longer. 
She  would  be  up  to  something  to  get  around  him. 

She  greeted  him  in  the  drawing-room  in  an  attractive 
negligee,  though  her  head  swam  with  the  effort  of 
getting  up.  Bantry  could  never  have  guessed  it  from 
her  face,  however.  She  had  spent  an  hour  before  her 
mirror.  I  think  even  he  was  surprised  anew  at  her 
charm.  In  her  heart  she  was  wondering  if  she  could 
ever  stand  having  this  man  touch  her  again.  But  his 
conceit  could  never  have  imagined  that. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  whimsical  smile  once  the 
maid  had  left  them  and  their  ironical  greeting  was  over. 

"I've  missed  you,  Jack,"  she  said  then  a  little  tragi- 
cally. She  could  always  act.  It  is  a  hard  part  she  has 
set  out  to  play  this  afternoon,  however. 

He  scoffs.     This  is  a  little  thick  even  for  his  conceit. 


326  THE  BALANCE 

"Yes,  you  have,"  he  says  unbelievingly,  "like  the 
rent  collector!" 

"All  right,"  she  says  then,  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  arouse  this  Irishman.  It  is  to 
agree  with  him.  It  always  turns  the  trick. 

He  looks  at  her  a  moment. 

"Have  you  missed  me?"  he  asks  then  a  little  tensely. 
It  is  odd  how  the  thought  that  he  thrills  her  still  can 
get  his  interest  so  instantly. 

She  looks  at  him,  her  eyes  flashing  slightly. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me?"  she  asks. 

He  is  not  deceived  as  yet,  however. 

"Because  you  didn't  want  to  see  me,"  he  answers 
easily. 

She  gives  a  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  says.  There  is  a  tiny  implication 
in  her  tone  that  fires  him. 

"Have  you  missed  me?"  he  reiterates,  more  tensely 
than  before. 

She  looks  at  him  ironically. 

"Considered  as  a  lover's  question,  Jack,  isn't  it  a 
little  bit  late?"  she  asks. 

He  feels  her  evasion  now,  however,  as  she  intends  he 
shall. 

"Have  you?"  he  repeats  intently. 

She  stares  into  his  eyes  a  moment,  and  then  looks 
away. 

"You  always  had  a  fascination  for  me,  Jack,"  she 
says  in  a  low  tone.  To  change  the  next  instant — 

"What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  lately?" 
lightly.  This  tantalizing  always  disturbs  Bantry,  she 
knows. 

He  is  not  to  be  turned  aside  now. 

"  Damn ! "  he  says.  " To  think  you  married  Tappan ! 
I'd  have  seen  you  through ! "  This  is  a  safe  thing  to  say 
now  that  there  is  no  danger  of  being  called  upon  to 
make  good  his  words.  The  girl  seems  more  attractive, 
too,  than  he  had  thought  possible.  She  certainly  gets 
to  him.  "It  wasn't  necessary,"  he  adds  moodily. 


THE  BALANCE  327 

"No  heroics,  Jack."  She  shakes  her  head.  She  must 
pretend  to  discourage  him  at  first.  In  her  next  words, 
however,  there  is  a  ring  of  truth*  "Anyway,  what's  the 
difference?"  She  turns  her  head  a  trifle.  "He  doesn't 
love  me " 

His  suspicions  rise  again.  Is  she  going  to  offer  her- 
self to  him? 

"What  is  this?"  he  inquires  cynically.     "A  game?" 

"A  game!*'  she  counters  quickly.  She  must  hurry 
here.  "What  for — you?"  She  laughs  amusedly. 
"Why,  I  could  always  lead  you  a  chase,"  she  says 
smilingly.  "You're  an  easy  mark  for  any  girl,  Jack. 
I  didn't  mean  anything — except — oh,  what's  the  dif- 
ference what  I  meant?  Perhaps  I'm  just  sick  of  sitting 
here  in  this  apartment  alone!  Who  knows?" 

"That's  a  lie,"  he  says  tensely.  "You  meant  what 
you  said,  didn't  you?  Didn't  you?" 

She  turns  to  him  passionately. 

"Mean  it!  Of  course  I  meant  it — do  you  think  I 

like  this  kind  of  a  life — with  my  nature It  is 

becoming  hard  for  her  now.  but  she  forces  herself  on. 
"He  doesn't  even  look  at  me— I'm  caged,  that's  all — 
caged!" 

"By  God,  I'll  smash  your  cage,  then,"  he  says  hotly. 
And  he  steps  forward  toward  the  divan. 

"  Don't ! "  she  says  faintly.     "  Leave  me  alone,  Jack! " 

What  a  modulation  it  was  that  she  put  in  her  voice 
just  then!  I  think  he  could  almost  feel  desire  beating 
through  the  words — desire  for  him  to  come  on,  and  yet 
fear  least  he  should  really  touch  her. 

Inside,  however,  she  is  wondering  if  she  is  of  the  stuff 
that  can  make  sacrifices.  It  does  not  seem  possible 
that  she  can  stand  the  touch  of  this  man  even  long 
enough  to  go  away  and  leave  Sammy  free,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  it  is  the  only  reparation  apparently  that  she 
can  make  for  her  act. 

It  is  a  fire,  nevertheless,  with  which  she  is  playing  this 
afternoon  in  her  endeavour  to  make  reparation — a  fire 
of  unknown  strength,  that  of  a  sudden  leaps  up  and  out 


328  THE  BALANCE 

beyond  her  control.  Bantry  has  suddenly  flamed  with 
the  nearness  of  her  to  him. 

"You  devil!  "  he  says  hoarsely;  and  the  next  moment 
has  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  He  did  not 
feel  the  shrinking  of  her  beneath  his  embrace  or  the  cold 
avoidance  of  his  kisses  while  she  sat  there,  motionless, 
for  a  moment. 

Only  for  a  moment,  though,  before  she  cried  out  in 
uncontrollable  horror.  In  that  moment  there  had 
come  to  her  the  vision  of  the  impossibility  of  the  course 
which  she  had  chosen,  the  frozen  horror  of  the  future,  a 
future  which  she  could  never  live  through;  all  expressed 
in  the  horrible  nausea  the  touch  of  Bantry  sent  coldly 
through  her,  as  if  some  reptile  had  touched  her  in  the 
dark.  She  had  changed,  too,  she  realized,  and  what  was 
possible  before,  no  longer  was. 

"My  God!"  she  cried  out,  then.  "Not  yet — not 

yet "  And  she  forced  him  back  from  her  on  the 

divan. 

He  knew  at  once. 

"So  it  was  a  game!"  he  cried  furiously.  "A  game 
again,  to  get  me " 

It  was  wounded  conceit  as  much  as  anything  that 
put  the  fury  in  his  voice.  She  had  nearly  made  a  fool 
of  him,  this  girl! 

"  Not  you ! "  she  responded  tensely,  then.  "  It  was  to 
save  Tappy — who  cares  for  you!  You  can  tell  all  you 
please  if  you  want  to — I've  told  him  the  truth  first, 
myself!" 

She  has  been  keeping  this  in  reserve  all  along,  in  case 
her  nerve  should  fail  her  in  her  first  attempt.  She  will 
try  bluffing  him,  as  she  calls  it. 

His  eyes  narrow  suddenly. 

"Not  the  truth  as  I  know  it,  though,"  he  says  vio- 
lently. She  cannot  play  him  like  this  any  longer. 

"Yes,  as  you  know  it,"  she  says  coldly.  There  is  not 
a  flicker  of  an  eyelash  to  betray  the  lie. 

For  a  moment  he  is  stunned.  She  has  beaten  him 
after  all!  Then  a  new  point  of  view  comes  to  him. 


THE  BALANCE  329 

"All  the  better  then,  by  God ! "  he  cries  triumphantly. 
"If  that's  it,  he'll  pay  me  for  keeping  it  dark,  just  as  well 
as  you  would  have.  I  don't  fear  your  Tappy !  Or  you, 
either!  I've  had  my  fun  with  you,  I'm  through!" 

I  think  Ruby  saw  as  in  a  flash  that  moment  that  she 
was  lost  indeed.  Nothing  now  could  prevent  the  truth 
from  coming  to  S.  Sydney  Tappan  if  this  Irishman  went 
on  with  his  threat. 

He  will  carry  it  out,  too,  she  is  quite  certain.  There 
is  a  look  of  hatred  in  his  eyes  that  she  has  never  seen 
before.  It  is  because  he  is  thinking  that  these  people 
in  New  York  who  "have  things"  upon  other  people 
squeeze  until  the  last  instant  or  their  victims  escape 
and  they  get  nothing  from  it  all.  He  will  not  make 
the  mistake  of  drawing  back  now.  If  he  wins  it  will  be 
easy  afterward,  indeed.  The  iron  hand  is  wanted  now. 

It  was  what  lent  him  courage  to  go  on:  the  knowledge 
that  if  he  hesitated  he  was  beaten. 

"You  won't  find  him  a  woman!"  Ruby  cries,  "whom 
you  can  threaten,  and  browbeat." 

I  do  not  think  either  of  them  heard  the  opening 
door  or  footsteps  in  the  hall  until  S.  Sydney  Tappan 
stood  there  in  the  doorway  with  John  Cromwell  be- 
hind him — stood  listening  a  moment  only  and  then 
stepped  swiftly  forward. 

"What's  this?"  he  said. 

What  a  piercing  silence  that  was  to  Ruby! 

Bantry  answered  first,  after  a  pause. 

"Ask  her,"  he  said  coolly.  His  sudden  calm  was 
ominous  to  Ruby.  He  was  gathering  himself  together 
for  the  struggle,  and  felt  her  speechlessness  as  swords- 
men feel  intuitively  the  dangerous  openings  left  by 
their  opponents.  If  she  wanted  the  showdown  now, 
why,  by  God,  she  should  have  it!  He  did  not  notice 
at  all  the  form  of  John  Cromwell  in  the  background, 
unless  I  am  mistaken. 

"I  am  asking  you,"  Sammy  said  quietly.  "What 
are  you  doing  here?"  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
menace  of  the  tone. 


330  THE  BALANCE 

"She  sent  for  me,"  Bantry  answered  instantly. 

"I  didn't,"  Ruby  cried  at  once.  It  was  her  first 
mistake  that  afternoon.  Bantry  held  her  note  in  his 
hand.  She  had  thought  merely  to  deny  everything 
blindly,  completely. 

"What's  that,  then?"  he  asked  grimly.  He  held 
out  the  note  to  Sammy  who  did  not  take  it.  I  think 
S.  Sydney  Tappan  knew  that  there  was  something 
underneath  the  surface  of  this  meeting  that  he  did  not 
understand,  and  to  which  the  note  would  lend  no 
clue. 

"Did  you  send  for  him?"  he  asked  Ruby. 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly.  A  little  gleam  of  hope  had 
sprung  up  in  her  again.  It  was  that  the  truth  of  the 
past  might  go  unnoticed  in  the  stress  of  the  moment 
if  the  issue  could  be  joined  at  once.  It  was  why  she 
rose  so  swiftly  and  addressed  herself  to  Sammy. 

"It's  blackmail,  that's  why,"  she  said  tensely. 
"He  knows!" 

She  pointed  at  Bantry.  I  think  she  was  conscious 
of  Cromwell  in  the  background  and  her  lips  closed  upon 
any  dangerous  details. 

There  was  a  sinking  of  Bantry 's  heart  in  that  second, 
too.  So — she  had  told  Tappan  after  all! 

In  Sammy,  however,  there  was  no  wish  to  act  until 
he  knew  all  the  facts.  He  was  not  sure  even  then 
just  what  the  Irishman  knew. 

"Knows  what?"  he  asked  coolly.  It  would  come 
out  in  a  moment,  and  our  Sammy  has  learned  pa- 
tience. 

"Our  marriage,"  she  answered  in  her  strained  voice. 
If  there  were  no  details  her  answer  might  save  her; 
and  the  clash  of  battle  was  on  now. 

Sammy  knew  then,  as  the  image  of  Ricorton  sprang 
again  into  his  mind.  He  turned  slowly  to  where  Ban- 
try  stood  by  the  curtains  near  the  divan. 

"You  beast!"  he  said  clearly.     "Get  out!" 

His  voice  was  steady,  but  in  his  eyes  there  was  the 
flash  of  an  overpowering  anger — an  anger  that  cooled 


THE  BALANCE  331 

Bantry  like  a  dash  of  ice-cold  spring  water;  yet  did  not 
daunt  him.  The  iron  hand,  now!  And  the  momen- 
tary gleam  of  hope  which  had  come  into  Ruby's  eyes 
as  Sammy  spoke,  died  again  with  his  words. 

"Not  yet,"  the  Irishman  said  hoarsely. 

"Now!"  our  Sammy  said,  his  tone  like  steel.  Only 
Cromwell's  touch  upon  the  playwright's  arm  has  saved 
Bantry  thus  far. 

In  the  Irishman,  however,  there  was  the  conscious- 
ness that  the  thing  had  gone  as  far  as  it  could  in  safety. 

"You  listen  to  me,  Tappan,"  he  said  swiftly.  "I'm 
not  the  one  who's  out  to  do  you  up.  The  truth's  all 
you  want — the  truth  you  haven't  had — that  she's 
trying  to  keep  from  you."  He  will  test  those  asser- 
tions of  Ruby's  before  conceding  his  defeat. 

To  Ruby  the  Irishman's  words  come  as  a  first  presage 
of  defeat,  like  the  sound  of  Bliicher's  men  to  the  First 
Napoleon  on  the  field  of  Waterloo.  Fate  is  against 
her  now,  as  against  the  Corsican  so  long  ago.  She 
hardly  hears  Sammy's  answer  in  the  defeat  she  sees 
coming,  although  the  words  do  not  seem  like  defeat 
at  all. 

"I  don't  get  your  insinuations,  Bantry,"  he  has 
said  deliberately.  "Is  that  all?" 

For  a  moment  the  Irishman  saw  red  at  the  remark. 
It  was  furious  temper  that  spit  out  at  them  then. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  fool?"  he  sneered  furiously. 
"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  why  you  married  her? 
Do  you  think  I'm  blind?  It's  you  who  is  the  sucker, 
you  poor  fool — you  and  your  marriage.  Why,  Ricorton 
never  touched  her — and  she's  made  you  think  he  did! 
I  knew  she'd  done  you  up  the  day  I  saw  her  in  Utica, 
and  she  told  me  he'd  died.  She  tried  to  put  it  over  on 
me  before  he  was  killed,  and  I  wouldn't  stand  for  it — 
that's 'how  much  he  had  to  do  with  it — he  was  easy, 

too!" 

"It's  a  lie,  I  tell  you,"  Ruby  cried  hoarsely.  She 
could  stand  it  no  longer. 

But  Sammy  motioned  her  away. 


332  THE  BALANCE 

"I'll  deal  with  this  man,"  he  said.  There  was 
murder  in  his  face— murder  that  made  Ruby  quail, 
and  Cromwell  tighten  his  grasp  upon  his  arm. 

"A  lie,  is  it?"  Bantry  turned  on  Ruby.  "And 
Tenth  Street,  and  Ricotti's  was  a  lie " 

"I  never  saw  Ricotti's  with  you "  she  cried. 

"No,  nor  the  Fontainebleau,"  he  said  mercilessly. 
He  would  expose  the  thing  now.  "Nor  Kingslands, 
or  Fourteenth  Street.  And  I  suppose  I  was  the  only 
one" — he  turned  to  Sammy — "she  tried  to  make 
me  think  I  was  the  only  one  who  had  ever  touched 
her" — he  laughed,  sneered — "Good  God!" 

It  was  unintentional  on  his  part,  I  think,  but  the 
chance  remark  was  Ruby's  undoing.  He  might  have 
said  almost  anything  else  than  that  sneer,  and  she 
would  not  have  lost.  But  the  injustice  of  it  flooded 
her  mind,  drowning  all  caution,  all  sense  of  danger,  all 
cunning,  all  pretense,  leaving  only  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  the  shame  and  bitter  wrong  of  it  to  her. 

"You  lie!"  she  cried  out,  roused  to  madness.  "No 
one  else  ever  touched  me!  I'm  not  that  kind!" 

She  did  not  realize  her  irretrievable  mistake,  then, 
until  he  seized  upon  and  drove  home  his  advantage. 

"It's  true,  then,"  he  said  exultantly.  "By  God — 
deny  Ricotti's  or  the  Fontainebleau  or  Sixtieth  Street 
the  time  you  tried  to  fix  it  up  with  me " 

"I  never  saw  you  at  Ricotti's  or  Sixtieth  Street," 
she  cried  in  a  wild  haste  to  deny  this  thing  that  seemed 
about  to  crush  her  down  into  insanity. 

It  was  as  Sammy  faced  her,  however,  a  new  light 
in  his  'dark  eyes  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  come  in 
— it  was  then  that  she  lost  forever.  For  into  his  mind 
had  come  as  if  by  flashlight  the  remembrance  of  the 
evening  when  Pudney  had  told  him  of  Ricotti's  and  the 
Irishman,  of  Ric's  strange  silence  about  it  all  upon  the 
cobblestones  of  the  East  Side  before  he  swooned  for- 
ever; of  the  barber's  wife  upon  Sixtieth  Street  as  she 
swept  out  the  cats;  focussing  now  upon  this  admission 
dragged  from  her  by  the  Irishman  for  whom  she  had 


THE  BALANCE  333 

sent  in  some  last  effort  to  keep  the  secret  from  him 
.  .  .  from  him,  who  had. 

He  saw  black  a  second  before  he  opened  his  lips 
again. 

"So — it  wasn't — Ric?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

She  did  not  look  at  him. 

It  was  the  greatest  height  S.  Sydney  Tappan  ever 
achieved  in  the  history  of  his  character,  then.  His 
hands  clenched  slowly  until  a  thin  trickle  of  blood 
showed  on  the  edge  of  his  palms.  But  his  voice  did 
not  even  seem  to  change  as  he  spoke  after  that  silence. 

"Why?"  he  asked.  It  was  but  the  one  word;  but 
there  was  not  a  person  in  the  room  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  question  our  Sammy  was  asking  in  that 
unwavering  voice.  God  in  Heaven,  why  had  she  chosen 
to  ruin  him! 

Yet  he  would  not  pass  judgment  until  he  understood. 
It  was  the  realization  of  the  stuff  of  which  he  was  made 
that  compelled  Ruby  to  look  at  him. 

"It  was  that  or  death  for  me "  she  cried  passion- 
ately. "Have  you  forgotten  West  Twenty-ninth 
Street?  I'm  not  bad.  He  took  advantage  of  me — 
what  chance  had  I  ?  I  didn't  know  it  would  ever 
come  to  this — and  you  offered — offered " 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  silence  as  she  realized  the 
pitiful  weakness  of  her  words,  these  miserably  inade- 
quate excuses.  How  different  it  all  seemed  in  this 
apartment  in  the  sunlight  than  it  had  on  West  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  with  Ricorton  lying  dead  upon  his  cot  in 
the  dull  light. 

"I  didn't  realize  then,  Tappy.  Oh,  I  tried  to  make 
you  offer — I  didn't  believe  there  was  a  man  who'd  do 
it — I  didn't  know  then — I  didn't  see,  as  I  see  now 

In  Sammy's  mind,  however,  there  is  only  the  picture 
of  Carrie  as  she  turned  away  from  the  door  in  the  hall 
saying,  blindly,  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?" 

"Good  God,"  he  says,  "why  didn't  you  tell  me  the 
truth  when  the  need  for  deception  was  past?" 


334  THE  BALANCE 

It  almost  seems  as  if  he  could  forgive  her  anything 
except  the  moment  when  Carrie  stood  before  him  in 
this  same  room. 

"I  couldn't,"  Ruby  says  desperately.  "Couldn't, 
I  tell  you — I  didn't  know  about — Melchester  " — 
it  is  the  first  time  she  has  intimated  that  she  knows  of 
Carrie — "I  knew  you  didn't  think  of  me — we're  not 
the  same  kind — oh,  I  know  that — but  that  .doesn't 
stop  people  from  loving — why  wouldn't  I  fall  in  love 
with  you  after  what  you'd  done — I  tried  to  change 
myself,  my  looks,  my  voice,  tried  to  be  a  lady — oh, 
I  know  I'm  not  one.  Why,  I  didn't  know  what  real 
love  was  the  night  Ric  died.  Didn't  understand  what 
I  was  doing  to  you.  I  was  only  saving  myself,  saving 
myself,  don't  you  see!  It  was  when  I  realized  it  all 
— that  I  tried  to  make  it  up  to  you — hoped  you  might 
never  know  it — don't  you  see,  Tappy — God,  don't 
you  see?" 

She  was  incoherent  in  her  desire  to  show  him  her 
pitiful  justification.  I  think  she  knew  all  along  that 
she  had  done  the  unpardonable  to  him,  however; 
knew,  too,  that  there  never  could  be  any  real  forgive- 
ness for  her.  Indeed,  I  wonder  is  there  for  any  one? 
The  past  is  but  character  in  bronze;  the  future  char- 
acter in  flux.  Will  the  elements  change?  Forgiveness 
usually  is  sentiment.  I  am  glad  for  Sammy  that  his 
mind  was  as  if  annihilated  during  those  moments 
when  Bantry  walked  from  the  room  muttering,  "I 
guess  that's  all!"  beneath  his  breath,  in  his  soul  a 
great  cold  fear  of  God;  glad  that  he  had  no  words 
except  a  hardly  audible  "I  see,"  that  meant  nothing 
to  him  at  all — he  would  never  see;  glad,  too,  that  Crom- 
well went  silently  out  leaving  his  scribbled  card  for 
supper  on  Seventy-second  Street  behind  on  the  table; 
leaving  Sammy  still  standing  there,  staring  at  the  bed- 
room door  behind  which  Ruby  had  vanished  like  a 
cur  of  the  streets,  the  despair  of  the  forsaken  of  God  in 
her  heart. 

He  never  knew  how  long  he  stood  there,  afterward. 


THE  BALANCE  335 

He  was  conscious  only  of  the  maid  coming  in  response 
to  Ruby's  ring  and  taking  out  a  letter  to  the  mail  box; 
conscious  of  the  passage  of  time,  of  the  silence  in  Ruby's 
room;  of  the  noise  in  the  street;  of  the  afternoon  paper 
beside  him  with  its  ironical  headlines  of  "depression 
lifting"- 

Depression  lifting! 

Depression  lifting.  .  .  .  How  vaguely  his  mind 
seemed  to  work — employment  and  food  now  for  the 
poor,  the  poverty  stricken  of  whom  he  himself  has 
been  one  so  short  a  while  ago;  he  and  Ric,  and  the  girl 
behind  the  door,  and  that  Irishman  who  has  left,  he 
sees  now;  all  beneath  that  Monster's  claws  so  short  a 
while  ago — though — why,  yes,  Ric  is  dead  now — the 
Monster  killed  him. 

Slowly  there  rose  before  S.  Sydney  Tappan,  then,  in 
the  gray  twilight  of  the  apartment  the  dark  vision  of 
the  Monster,  seeking  out  the  weaknesses  of  its  victims' 
characters,  preying  with  hideous  cleverness  on  the 
frailty  of  humanity,  while  all  around  it  throws  the 
deadly  acid  of  its  dull  material  weight,  shutting  off  poor 
human  vision  from  man's  goal;  dragging  down  from 
pitiful  heights  the  Ricortons  of  the  earth,  with  their 
lack  of  resistant  fibre,  the  Rubys  of  the  world  with 
their  passion,  yes,  even  the  S.  Sydney  Tappans  with 
their  mock  heroic  strain ! 

As  in  a  dream  he  saw  plainly  his  plight,  traceable 
directly  from  that  never-conquered  desire  of  his  to 
play  always  the  hero's  role,  his  curse  his  ability  to  fall 
in  love  with  an  idea,  the  idea  of  the  hero.  He  saw  it  all 
quite  plainly  then — saw,  and  even  in  his  agony  cast  off 
his  weakness  forever.  That  hero  of  his  will  be  his 
slave  hereafter,  not  his  master.  The  Monster  has  won 
over  him,  too,  because  of  his  weakness. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  he  became  aware  of  the 
long-continued  stillness  in  Ruby's  room;  a  stillness  that 
seemed  to  oppress  him  as  if  a  sinister  something  might 
dominate  it. 


336  THE  BALANCE 

He  rose  then,  standing  a  moment  by  the  door  before 
he  opened  it. 

She  lay  upon  the  bed,  her  mouth  showing  quite  blue 
in  the  half  light  of  the  room.  Even  before  he  saw  the 
empty  bottle  of  acetanelid  upon  the  dresser  he  knew 
that  she  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  WHICH  SAMMY  MAKES  A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  SECOND 
TIME — AND  GETS  IT 

THE  world  moves  after  all,  though  whether  in  a 
circle  or  not  it  is  for  philosophers  to  determine. 

Mr.  Schroeder,  for  instance,  was  never  conscious  that 
there  had  been  any  movement  of  the  moral  boundaries 
until  he  found  himself  left  periodically  behind  still 
metaphorically  engaged  in  burning  witches  in  a  modern 
woman  suffrage  New  England.  That  he  could  be  left 
behind,  however,  is  proof  that  movements  actually 
took  place.  To  him  each  move  was  always  the  last. 
One  more,  and  the  country  could  not  be  saved.  He 
always  viewed  the  new  horizon  as  Columbus'  mariners 
might  be  expected  to  have  done;  the  falling-off  place 
at  last!  A  Christian  gentleman,  Mr.  Schroeder,  but 
born  fifty  years  too  late. 

It  was  why  he  viewed  with  such  suspicion,  such  alarm 
the  entrance  of  Christianity  into  the  industrial  world 
under  the  name  of  the  awakening  of  the  social  con- 
science, during  those  years  of  Sammy's  career.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  him  before  that  Christianity  could 
ever  put  on  its  hat  and  coat  for  any  purpose  except 
that  daily  walk  from  the  church  to  the  home  and  back 
again.  When  it  walked  into  the  industrial  world  some- 
how he  did  not  recognize  it.  He  saw  instead  a  stranger, 
an  impractical  one,  whose  faults  were  vaguely  familiar, 
but  who,  it  was  plain,  would  never  do  in  business. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  his  wife  was  a  Schroeder 
only  by  the  grace  of  marriage  that  she  was  capable  of  a 
change.  By  far  the  greatest  number  of  her  prejudices 
had  been  contracted  at  the  altar.  It  was  her  naturally 

337 


338  THE  BALANCE 

headstrong  nature  that  led  her  on  then  to  spend  the 
major  portion  of  her  existence  calling  the  objects  of 
those  prejudices  fools,  only  to  discover  in  the  end  that 
they  were  not  fools  at  all. 

It  took  her  a  year  after  Carrie  had  gone  to  New  York, 
and  she  herself  had  begun  peeping  through  the  blinds, 
to  see  that  her  daughter  was  not  really  crazy  after  all. 
It  was  characteristic  of  her,  too,  that  upon  the  dis- 
covery she  promptly  forgot  all  that  she  had  said  till 
then,  and  applauded  Carrie  as  splendidly  as  she  had 
pointed  out  her  insanity  before. 

Perhaps  there  was  in  it,  also,  a  touch  of  triumph  over 
her  spouse.  He  had  always  been  a  fool,  and  would 
remain  so  forever,  if  he  persisted  in  his  old  attitude 
toward  his  daughter.  He  was  the  only  one  she  always 
remained  certain  of  to  the  end.  Mr.  Schroeder  could 
never  change. 

And  yet  it  might  have  been  merely  that  the  motive 
which  animated  his  wife  in  her  new  attitude  to  Carrie 
could  never  have  appealed  to  Mr.  Schroeder.  Most 
of  our  good  Mrs.  Schroeder's  change  came  because  she 
sensed  dimly  the  first  beginnings  of  high  society's 
altered  point  of  view  toward  the  proletariat.  In  time, 
she  saw  of  a  sudden,  this  point  of  view  of  her  daughter's 
might  land  them  all  among  the  inner  circle  of  the  socially 
elect  around  which  they  seemed  to  merely  hover  so  far, 
in  spite  of  the  distance  which  they  had  climbed.  A 
queer,  roundabout  way,  perhaps,  but  sensible  if  suc- 
cessful in  the  end;  an  expression  of  charitable  work 
actually  of  some  use  and  benefit  to  everybody! 

It  was  why  she  subscribed  so  generously  to  the  Hague 
Street  Settlement,  when  Mrs.  Dobbs  came  to  ask  her  if 
Carolyn  would  take  over  the  direction  of  the  plant  upon 
the  resignation  of  Mrs.  Lewis;  subscribed  and  avoided 
deftly  the  question  of  Mr.  Schroeder's  ideas  upon  the 
subject.  She  had  decided  to  relieve  her  husband  of  his 
charitable  wo/k,  she  said.  The  decision  had  come  al- 
most instantaneously  to  her  as  the  little  gray  lady  who 
led  Melchester  society  now  sat  in  the  Schroeder  drawing- 


THE  BALANCE  339 

room.  It  had  been  induced  by  pictures  of  dinners 
where  Carrie  would  sit  beside  Asa,  make  little  speeches 
to  visiting  bishops  in  the  exclusive  libraries  of  Mel- 
chester's  best  homes,  perhaps  hold  meetings  of  the 
upper  circle  in  the  Schroeder  drawing-room.  Of  course 
Carrie  could  accept!  It  was  at  that  moment  that  Mr. 
Schroeder  lost  control  over  his  own  charitable  gifts. 

He  gave  in  sulkily,  without  a  struggle.  He  could 
always  recognize  the  signs  of  the  weather,  and  never 
strove  to  do  anything  except  prepare  for  the  change. 
His  retirement  from  the  active  direction  of  the  store  the 
month  before  had  seemed  to  take  the  edge  from  his 
fighting  blood,  too,  even  where  his  wife  was  not  con- 
cerned. I  think  he  had  begun  to  feel  old. 

He  said  nothing  when  his  wife  announced  at  the 
table  that  she  herself  was  going  to  New  York  and  would 
carry  the  Settlement's  offer  to  Carrie.  It  was  his  silence 
that  gave  the  two  offspring  the  cue  to  applaud  weakly 
the  good  luck  of  their  sister.  They  had  thought  Carrie 
done  for  forever.  Dull  rebellion  filled  their  souls  at  the 
thought  of  her  return.  She  always  knew  so  thoroughly 
what  she  thought.  The  idea  of  what  the  Settlement 
might  mean  to  the  poor  and  Carrie  did  not  enter  their 
heads.  It  was  the  social  opportunity  of  which  they 
thought.  They  knew  their  sister's  gift.  She  was  going 
to  outdistance  them  after  all. 

Nothing  could  have  been  farther  from  our  Carrie's 
thoughts,  however,  than  the  social  race  in  far-off  Mel- 
chester  as  she  sat  in  the  plainly  furnished  sitting-room 
of  the  Settlement  upon  the  East  Side  that  day,  and 
read  a  letter  the  postman  had  just  brought  her;  a 
strange,  jerky,  disconnected  letter  which  only  seemed 
to  add  to  the  ghastly  pain  in  her  heart  with  its  signature 
at  the  end.  RubyTappan! 

She  put  it  down  with  all  the  old  horror  of  that  mo- 
ment in  the  apartment  in  her  soul  anew,  deepening  the 
circles  under  her  eyes,  accentuating  the  paleness  of  her 
cheeks.  This  woman — she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
call  her  wife — had  heard  it  all  then  in  the  bedroom  the 


340  THE  BALANCE 

day  of  her  call  on  Sammy!  Had  heard,  and  did  not. 
hesitate  now  to  declare  her  intention  of  leaving  him. 
What  else  could  these  sentences  about  getting  out  of  the 
way  mean  ?  It  fascinated  her,  that  letter.  There  was 
not  about  it,  somehow,  the  air  of  anger,  of  rage  the 
letter  of  an  awakened  jealous  woman  should  have. 
Between  the  words,  the  sentences,  there  seemed  to  lurk 
a  sense  of  indefinable  tragedy,  of  hopelessness,  of  fear 
and  sadness  that  caught  Carrie  by  the  throat  and  set 
her  to  reading  again  and  again  the  queer,  broken  phras- 
ing. How  had  it  happened  that  Sammy  had  never 

And  what  did  she  mean  by  "her  fault  from  the  begin- 
ning?" Her  "you  would  always  want  each  other,  and 
I  can't  stand  between  ? "  Her  "I  did  not  think  he  would 
do  it  ? "  And  the  "he  will  tell  you  ? " 

A  queer,  mad  jumble  it  seemed  to  her,  like  the  fever 
ravings  of  some  of  the  poor  dying  in  the  tenements, 
hopeless,  and  strangely  without  rancour. 

A  week  now,  too,  since  she  had  found  herself  in  the 
street  outside  the  Stradford,  leaning  against  the  post 
of  the  awning  while  the  passersby  stared  curiously  at 
her.  A  week,  and  this  woman  had  known  it  all  this 
time  and  had  not  written  until  now.  What  had  Sammy 
said,  she  wondered?  She  had  not  been  able  since  to 
put  from  her  memory  that  shadow  of  unreason  in 
Sammy's  eyes  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  her.  Had  he 
been  ill? 

Into  her  mind  there  sprang  again  all  the  doubts,  the 
tormenting  bewilderments,  the  unbearable  perplexities 
of  the  past  week.  Why  had  he  done  it  ?  She  was  too 
honest  with  herself  to  pretend  that  she  had  been 
deceived.  She  could  feel  even  yet  the  sudden  ecstasy 
of  tjhe  moment  when  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and 
their  lips  had  joined.  No  need  for  pretense  after  that. 
He  loved  her  still,  she  knew.  It  was  with  a  touch  of 
dismay  that  she  admitted  to  herself  that,  she,  too  still 
loved  him  as  before.  I  am  afraid  she  knew  that  she 
would  always  love  him,  no  matter  what  he  did,  and  the 
knowledge  frightened  her.  That  he  was  married  seemed 


THE  BALANCE  341 

to  make  no  difference,  somehow.  Was  love  always  like 
this?  It  was  only  when  she  realized  how  she  would 
feel  should  she  ever  see  him  again  that  she  recognized 
the  power  her  inherited  morality  had  over  her.  I  do 
not  think  she  would  even  have  stopped  to  speak  to  him, 
so  great  would  her  fear  have  been  that  her  self-control 
might  desert  her. 

It  is  odd  to  think  now  that  that  morning  paper  which 
she  felt  it  such  a  waste  of  time  to  read  could  have  ex- 
plained most  of  the  mystery  of  the  note  to  her  without 
a  moment's  delay;  and  it  lay  on  the  sitting-room  table 
still  folded. 

It  was  spread  wide  open  on  the  breakfast  table  in  an 
apartment  on  Thirty-fourth  Street  at  that  same  hour,how- 
ever,  before  a  charming  person  in  brown,  with  bronze  hair 
and  fine  complexion.  The  small  headline  had  arrested 
the  eye  of  Sylvia  Tremaine  before  she  had  yet  tasted 
her  first  breakfast  in  New  York,  after  an  absence  of 
many  months.  S.  Sydney  Tappan's  wife!  It  was  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  feelings  that  she  read  the  paragraph 
to  quell  the  instant  suspicion  that  it  might  possibly  be 
her  Sammy  to  whom  this  thing  had  come.  Still,  he 
could  not  have  married  Carrie  yet,  she  was  certain — he 
would  not  have  dared  without  letting  her  know. 
Dear  old  Tappy! 

It  was  the  details  of  the  Fine  Arts  that  first  struck 
into  her  heart,  however,  and  told  her  it  was  indeed 
Sammy.  He  had  sent  her  a  telegram  the  night  of  the 
production  of  "Doctor  Paulding"  and  she  had  wired  the 
theatre  instantly.  I  think  it  was  pure  sympathy  that 
turned  her  so  pale  with  sudden  pity  for  him  then,  and 
made  her  leave  the  breakfast  there  untouched  while 
she  ran  down  the  stairs  and  got  into  a  passing  taxicab 
bareheaded. 

"The  Stradford,"  she  said.  If  it  were  so — good 
God,  how  Tappy  would  need  her! 

The  scene  that  met  her  eyes  as  she  brushed  past  the 
maid  into  the  drawing-room  stayed  with  her  always. 
She  knew  Cromwell  by  the  window,  and  nodded  to  him. 


342  THE  BALANCE 

It  was  the  dark-eyed  gaunt  man  in  the  chair  at  whom 
she  stared  and  stared  until  she  had  reconstructed  from 
his  changed  looks  the  Sydney  she  had  known  and  come 
to  help.  Good  heavens,  was  this  S.  Sydney  Tappan? 
I  do  not  suppose  either  of  the  men  noticed  even  her 
moment's  hesitation.  The  instant  that  she  knew 
Sammy  was  really  S.  Sydney  Tappan  she  knew  that  the 
paper  had  told  the  truth. 

"My  God,  Sydney,"  she  said,  "how  did  it  happen?" 
And  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  his  chair.  I  think 
Cromwell  changed  the  estimate  of  a  lifetime  as  Sylvia 
Tremaine  looked  at  Sammy. 

Sammy  told  her  then,  in  slow,  broken  sentences,  from 
the  beginning;  while  that  look  of  infinite  pity  deepened 
in  her  eyes,  as  he  told  her  of  Ricorton's  death  and  she 
realized  gradually  the  pitiful  high  tragedy  of  it  all,  the 
useless  struggle  against  fate. 

It  was  only  when  she  grasped  first  Ruby's  identity 
that  she  cried  out. 

"But  Carrie!"  she  cried  then;  and  knew  from 
Sammy's  eyes  that  she  should  have  kept  silent. 

There  came  in  her  mind,  too,  when  he  had  finished,  a 
feeling  of  shame.  She  was  thinking  of  the  warning  she 
had  given  Sammy  about  Ruby  that  night  in  the  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  apartment,  comparing  her  light  judg- 
ment with  the  heroism  of  the  girl's  final  exit.  There 
was  in  her  mind,  as  there  had  been  in  Ruby's,  no  sense 
of  any  moral  weakness  in  the  deed  which  had  thus 
removed  the  girl  from  the  scene  of  action  when  no 
other  way  seemed  open.  Suicide  is  not  a  crime  to 
people  who  have  not  been  brought  up  to  consider  it 
such.  To  Sylvia  as  to  Ruby  it  appeared  simply  as  a 
matter  of  courage.  There  had  been  no  ties  which  the 
dead  actress  considered  she  was  in  duty  bound  to  con- 
sider. There  had  been  nothing  in  her  mind  except  the 
thought  that  Sammy  had  saved  her,  and  she  must  pay 
now  for  the  reckoning  he  had  staved  off  for  her  at  the 
expense  of  his  happiness. 

I  think  all  three  of  those  people  in  the  apartment  that 


THE  BALANCE  343 

morning  felt  the  pitiful  tragedy  of  the  dead  actress. 
She  had  been  so  far  from  being  a  bad  person  after  all. 
It  is  a  tribute,  too,  to  our  Sammy's  character  that  it  was 
not  the  injury  she  had  done  him  that  stuck  in  his  mind: 
it  was  the  comprehension  he  had  so  plainly  of  how  she 
had  come  to  do  it. 

It  was  Sylvia  who  attended  to  everything  for  Sammy 
in  the  next  days,  even  to  the  news  items  for  the  Utica 
papers,  with  their  six  lines  of  overdose  of  headache 
medicine  to  cover  the  grim  facts. 

Even  Mrs.  Williams,  as  she  sat  by  the  stove  in  her 
black  silk  and  listened  to  old  Doctor  Carter — who  had 
baptised  Ruby — deliver  the  sermon,  had  no  suspicion  of 
the  real  facts.  Her  daughter  had  been  a  stranger  to  her 
for  many  years.  She  felt  little  grief  beyond  that  of  the 
moment.  Of  all  the  theatrical  world  which  Ruby  had 
once  known  only  S.  Sydney  Tappan  and  Cromwell  with 
Sylvia  Tremaine  attended  the  Sunday  funeral.  The 
Uticans  from  the  side  streets  where  Ruby  had  played  as 
a  child  came  in  slight  wonderment  and  curiosity,  prin- 
cipally, I  think,  to  gape  at  S.  Sydney  Tappan  and  his 
companions.  Ruby  had  been  dead  so  far  as  they  were 
concerned  for  many  years.  It  was  too  bad.  The  Utica 
papers  gave  the  names  of  Sammy's  two  plays.  That 
was  all.  They  gave  his  residence  as  New  York.  Mel- 
chester  was  not  even  mentioned. 

It  was  Sylvia,  too,  who  roused  Sammy  to  Carrie's 
right  to  the  truth.  His  mind  seemed  overwhelmed  by 
the  tragic  events  of  those  weeks.  There  was  a  sense  of 
the  indecency  of  his  seeking  happiness  so  close  upon  the 
heels  of  this  human  catastrophe,  also  that  seemed  to  cry 
out  for  delay. 

He  would  have  written  her  then,  had  not  Sylvia 
laughed  the  idea  to  scorn.  * 

"You  may  be  a  good  playwright,  Tappy,"  she  said, 
"but  you  can't  condense  a  year  of  hell  into  a  page  of 
letter  paper.  You'll  go!" 

It  was  partly  because  he  saw  how  that  devil  of  a  hero 
had  been  tying  his  tongue  on  the  afternoon  of  Carrie's 


344  THE  BALANCE 

visit,  that  he^put  off  his  visit.  He  had  let  her  go  that 
day  without  a  word!  Surely  he  could  have  trusted  her 
with  the  secret.  And  yet,  somehow,  it  had  seemed  im- 
possible to  ever  tell  it  all  then,  impossible  to  explain  the 
odd  combination  of  environment  and  character  which 
had  led  him  to  sacrifice  himself.  He  saw  plainer  and 
plainer  in  those  afternoons  when  he  turned  it  all  over  in 
his  mind  that  all  prophets  have  part  of  the  truth;  saw, 
too,  that  for  every  character  the  crucible  of  life  turns  out 
ennobled,  a  dozen  emerge  ruined  whether  the  fire  be  that 
of  adversity  or  success — all  moral  disaster  an  endless 
combination  of  human  character  and  its  man-made 
Monster,  Environment. 

It  was  only  when  his  mind  grew  clearer  that  he  saw 
the  great  selfishness  of  his  action  to  Carrie,  and  listened 
to  Sylvia's  upbraidings.  It  was  her  constant  en- 
deavour to  keep  him  from  dwelling  upon  the  events  of 
the  days  just  past;  for  with  him  there  always  was  the 
shadow  of  a  tiny  remorse,  bothering  him  continually. 
It  was  the  thought  that  if  he  had  acted  differently  per- 
haps Ruby  might  never  have  been  driven  to  her  final 
desperate  end.  It  was  many  years  before  it  ceased  to 
bother  him  at  all. 

"Such  an  unbelievable  fool  as  you  are,  Sydney," 
Sylvia  would  say,  "to  think  of  such  a  thing.  And  then, 
too,  to  think  that  I  had  all  that  money,  and  you  didn't 
let  me  know!" 

It  always  brought  two  little  spots  of  red  into  his 
cheeks,  the  mention  of  her  help.  She  knew  then  each 
time  that  she  had  gotten  his  mind  off  himself  enough  for 
him  to  be  angry. 

"Let's  not  discuss  it,"  he  would  say  stiffly  while  she 
mimicked  him.  "You  always  were  a  brick  to  me, 
Sylvia — but  I  didn't  want  your  money — it  would  have 
been  just  temporary,  too " 

But  he  could  not  remain  stiff  for  long. 

"You're  not  angry  with  me  now,  are  you,  Sydney?" 
she  would  ask  gravely,  while  she  clasped  her  hands 
melodramatically. 


THE  BALANCE  345 

"With  you!"  he  would  retort.  His  tone  of  voice,  al- 
ways, was  the  best  reward  she  could  have  gotten.  It 
was  not  possible  to  remain  angry  with  her. 

She  had  the  satisfaction  soon  of  knowing  that  at  least 
he  did  not  look  any  longer  like  the  S.  Sydney  Tappan  she 
had  stared  at  in  the  chair  in  the  apartment  that  day. 
But  it  was  not  until  he  had  gotten  back  his  normal  ap- 
pearance, that  she  realized  how  frightfully  he  had 
looked  before.  Beyond  a  little  whimsical  despair  in  her 
heart,  too,  I  do  not  think  she  suffered  very  much  the  day 
he  went  to  the  Settlement  in  search  of  Carrie,  and  she 
gave  him  up  forever.  She  had  had  her  fight  before  and 
won. 

Carrie  in  the  Settlement  sitting-room  wondered  who 
the  lady  with  the  beautiful  quality  of  voice  could  be  who 
called  her  on  the  telephone  and  asked  if  she  would  be  in 
that  morning.  It  was  Sylvia  in  the  Thirty-fourth 
Street  apartment,  alone  now  by  her  fire,  and  suddenly 
grown  apprehensive  lest  Sammy  should  have  gone  to  the 
Settlement  only  to  find  Carrie  flown.  She  did  not  wish 
to  say  good-bye  again.  There  was  the  making  of  a 
heroine  in  Sylvia  though  she  would  have  laughed  the 
idea  to  scorn. 

It  was  one  of  the  shocks  of  Sammy's  life  that  morning 
when  he  saw  suddenly  again  the  dirty  street  where  Ri- 
corton  had  been  struck  down,  and  realized  how  close  it 
had  all  been  to  where  Carrie  was  in  her  Settlement  room. 

The  filth  and  squalor  of  the  place  filled  him  anew  then 
with  a  sense  of  the  inexorableness  of  the  Monster  while 
he  and  the  ones  like  him  talked  and  prated  and  wrote 
plays  for  the  Fine  Arts.  It  came  partly  from  that  sense 
of  futility  which  comes  to  every  one  who  has  achieved 
when  they  place  their  tiny  handiwork  against  the  vast 
space  yet  to  be  filled.  He  saw  himself  as  no  stepping- 
stone  upon  the  pathway  of  the  future  then  but  as  a  tiny 
piece  qf  some  mosaic  filling  up  a  chink  in  the  floor.  It 
was  characteristic  of  him,  however,  that  as  he  entered 
the  Settlement  hall  he  was  laying  out,  in  his  mind,  un- 
dismayed, the  first  dim  framework  of  a  new  play  to  sur- 


346  THE  BALANCE 

pass  "Doctor  Paulding"  as  it,  in  turn,  had  surpassed  the 
"Lady  in  the  Lion  Skin"  in  its  weight  upon  the  scales. 
His  vision  seemed  suddenly  stronger  than  ever,  brought 
perhaps  to  new  life  by  the  sight  of  the  Settlement 
structures  of  brick,  multiplied  endlessly  by  his  imagina- 
tion in  the  cities  of  America,  the  spirit  that  inhabits  their 
walls  striving  ceaselessly  in  this  new  promised  land  of 
the  new  world  for  the  balance  of  society. 

He  saw  suddenly  the  uselessness  of  throwing  himself 
upon  the  scales  unless  his  weight  should  remain  there 
forever,  growing  always  greater  with  the  passage  of 
time.  Well,  he  has  but  started  now.  He  will  be  always 
a  new  voice  in  the  wilderness  crying  for  the  Open  Mind  of 
humanity!  An  Open  Mind!  Without  which  the  bal- 
ance can  never  equalize,  with  which  all  changes  can  be 
distributed  evenly  forever!  An  Open  Mind — before 
which  ignorance,  prejudice,  apathy  cannot  stand !  And 
to  which  names  shall  not  make  appeal,  but  the  spirit  be- 
hind all  names  shall  always  make  entreaty! 

An  Open  Mind.  It  is  his  vision,  his  resolve,  as  he  dis- 
appears within  the  brick  doorway.  Never  afterward  in 
his  life  did  Sammy  see  a  Settlement  house  set  in  the 
squalor  of  the  tenements  that  he  did  not  feel  suddenly 
like  some  exiled  traveller  from  Palestine  come  suddenly 
in  an  alien  garden  upon  the  Cedars  of  Lebanon.  A 
touch  of  home!  The  Cedars  of  Lebanon  in  the  garden 
of  the  Monster. 

The  oval-faced  girl  with  the  clear  gaze  who  stood  by  the 
fireplace  knew  instantly  why  he  had  come.  He  would 
explain  now.  Sammy  never  realized  until  long  after- 
ward the  briefness  of  his  explanation  that  day. 

"I  came  to  tell  you,  Carrie,"  he  said,  while  she  nodded 
by  the  fireplace  and  her  hand  crept  to  her  throat.  She 
could  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  Why  had  he  added  the 
pain  of  this  explanation  ? 

Sammy  could  never  withstand  that  gesture,  however. 

"I'm  free,"  he  said  with  difficulty.  It  was  as  if  they 
were  boy  and  girl  together.  "And  I  want  you!" 

She  never  knew  afterward  why  she  did  not  question 


THE  BALANCE  347 

him  at  all,  did  not  ask  for  any  details,  did  not  doubt  the 
truth  of  what  he  said.  She  did  not  say  anything  at  all. 
She  nodded. 

I  do  not  think  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  He  was  praying  that 
this  time  it  would  be  forever.  It  was  his  second  prayer. 
Carrie  was  thinking  of  his  first,  so  many  years  ago  on 
Washington  Avenue,  in  Melchester.  He  got  them 
both.  .  .  . 

Well,  my  hatred  for  that  biography  has  faded  just  a 
little  now.  I  can  see  better  why  they  always  thought 
Sammy  was  a  hero  from  the  beginning.  I  could  forgive 
them  a  great  deal,  too,  for  the  fine  way  they  have  put  in 
all  of  Sammy's  later  plays  and  left  the  "Lady  in  the 
Lion  Skin"  such  light  mention.  You  will  search  in 
vain,  I  fear,  however,  for  the  names  of  the  Schroeders. 
Carrie's  name  is  there.  The  line  reads: 

"Married  Carolyn  Schroeder,  June  19 — . 

A  childhood  friend,  it  says!  His  second  wife! 
.  .  .  That  is  all. 

He  has  never  lost  his  vision,  S.  Sydney  Tappan.  I 
think  he  sees  sometimes  now,  when  he  sits  by  the  fire  in 
Melchester,  that  mere  plays  will  never  bring  on  the 
millennium.  But  he  has  paved  the  way  for  the  men  of 
action  at  least  and  will  still  hold  that  torch  of  his  aloft 
for  them  to  work  by!  It  is  his  consolation.  It  is  his 
great  regret  that  the  mould  of  his  own  career  has  set  and 
hardened  so  that  he  can  never  join  them  himself.  The 
elect!  They  are  always  welcome  in  Melchester  along 
with  Cromwell  and  Sylvia.  Sometimes  I  wonder,  too,  if 
the  ghosts  of  Ricorton  and  Ruby  do  not  warm  them- 
selves by  the  fire  there  ?  Well,  they  are  welcome,  also, 
doubly  welcome. 

Experience  of  life  brings  chanty  for  all. 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


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